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A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 


HARRY  LAUDER  AND  His  SON,  CAPTAIN  JOHN  LAUDER 


A  MINSTREL 
IN  FRANCE 


BY 

HARRY  LAUDER 


NEW  YORK 

HEARST'S  INTERNATIONAL  LIBRARY  CO. 
1918 


L37 


Copyright,  1918,  by 
HEARST'S  INTERNATIONAL  LIBRABY  Co.,  INC. 


All  rights  reserved,  including  the  translation  into  foreign 
languages^  including  the  Scandinavian 


TO 

THE  MEMORY  OF  MY  BELOVED  SON 
CAPTAIN  JOHN  LAUDEB 

First  8th,  Argyle  and  Sutherland  Highlanders 
Killed  in  France,  December  28,  19 1§ 

Oh,  there'8  sometimes  I  am  lonely 

And  I'm  weary  a'  the  day 

To  see  the  face  and  clasp  the  hand 

Of  him  who  is  away. 

The  only  one  God  gave  me, 

My  one  and  only  joy, 

My  life  and  love  were  centered  on 

My  one  and  only  boy. 

I  saw  him  in  his  infant  days 

Grow  up  from  year  to  year, 

That  he  would  some  day  be  a  man 

I  never  had  a  fear. 

His  mother  watched  his  every  step, 

'Twas  our  united  joy 

To  think  that  he  might  be  one  day 

My  one  and  only  boy. 

When  war  broke  out  he  buckled  on 
His  sword,  and  said,  "  Good-bye, 
For  I  must  do  my  duty,  Dad; 
Tell  Mother  not  to  cry, 
Tell  her  that  I'll  come  back  again." 
What  happiness  and  joy  I 
But  no,  he  died  for  Liberty, 
My  one  and  only  boy. 

The  days  are  long,  the  nights  are  drear, 

The  anguish  breaks  my  heart, 

But  oh!  I'm  proud  my  one  and  only 

Laddie  played  his  part. 

For  God  knows  best,  His  will  be  done, 

His  grace  does  me  employ. 

I  do  believe  I'll  meet  again 

My  one  and  only  boy. 


Copyright  1918  by  Harry  Lauder. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTBB  PAGK 

I 1 

II 11 

III 25 

IV 33 

V 42 

VI 52 

VII 61 

VIII 71 

IX 80 

X .91 

XI 107 

XII 118 

XIII         131 

XIV 146 

XV 164 

XVI 180 

XVII 200 

XVIII 217 

XIX 236 

XX 247 

XXI 261 

XXII 274 

XXIII 285 

XXIV 293 

XXV 304 

XXVI 316 

XXVII 323 

XXVIII  .       .  330 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

Harry  Lauder  and  His  Son,  Captain  John  Lauder 

Frontispiece 

1-ACIK8 
PA  OK 

"I  did  not  stop  at  sending  out  my  recruiting  band. 

I  went  out  myself"  ,  ,  ,  »  *  ^  30 

"  'Carry  On!'  were  the  last  words  of  my  boy,  Cap- 
tain John  Lauder,  to  his  men,  but  he  would 
mean  them  for  me,  too"  ,  .  f  .  56 

"Bang!  Went  Sixpence" 98 

Harry  Lauder  preserves  the  bonnet  of  his  son, 
brought  to  him  from  where  the  lad  fell.  ' '  The 
memory  of  his  boy,  it  is  almost  his  religion." 
— A  tatter  of  plaid  of  the  Black  Watch  on  a 
wire  of  a  German  entanglement  barely  sug- 
gests the  hell  the  Scotch  troops  have  gone 
through 130 

Captain  John  Lauder  and  Comrades  Before  the 

Trenches  in  France 180 

"  'Make  us  laugh  again,  Harry!'  Though  I  re- 
member my  son  and  want  to  join  the  ranks,  I 
have  obeyed" 232 

Harry  Lauder,  "Laird  of  Dunoon." — Medal 
struck  off  by  Germany  when  Lusitania  was 
sunk  256 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 


CHAPTER  I 

YON  days !  Yon  palmy,  peaceful  days  1  I  go 
back  to  them,  and  they  are  as  a  dream.  I 
go  back  to  them  again  and  again,  and  live 
them  over.  Yon  days  of  another  age,  the  age  of 
peace,  when  no  man  dared  even  to  dream  of  such 
times  as  have  come  upon  us. 

It  was  in  November  of  1913,  and  I  was  setting 
forth  upon  a  great  journey,  that  was  to  take  me 
to  the  other  side  of  the  world  before  I  came  back 
again  to  my  wee  hoose  amang  the  heather  at 
Dunoon.  My  wife  was  going  with  me,  and  my 
brother-in-law,  Tom  Vallance,  for  they  go  every- 
where with  me»  But  my  son  John  was  coming 
with  us  only  to  Glasgow,  and  then,  when  we  set 
Out  for  Liverpool  and  the  steamer  that  was  td 
bring  us  to  America  he  was  to  go  back  to  Cam- 
bridge, He  was  near  done  there,  the  bonnie  lad- 
die. He  had  taken  his  degree  as  Bachelor  of  Arts, 
and  was  to  set  out  soon  upon  a  trip  around  the 
world. 

Was  that  no  &  fine  plan  I  had  made  for  my  son? 
That  great  voyage  he  was  to  have,  to  see  the 
world  and  all  its  peoples!  It  was  proud  I  was 
that  I  could  give  it  to  him.  He  was — but  it  may 
be  I'll  tell  you  more  of  John  later  in  this  book! 


My  pen  runs  awa'  with  me,  and  my  tongue,  too, 
when  I  think  of  my  boy  John. 

We  came  to  the  pier  at  Dunoon,  and  there  she 
lay,  the  little  ferry  steamer,  the  black  smoke  curl- 
ing from  her  stack  straight  up  to  God.  Ah,  the 
braw  day  it  was !  There  was  a  frosty  sheen  upon 
the  heather,  and  the  Clyde  was  calm  as  glass.  The 
tops  of  the  hills  were  coated  with  snow,  and  they 
stood  out  against  the  horizon  like  great  big  sugar 
loaves. 

We  were  a'  happy  that  day!  There  was  a 
crowd  to  see  us  off.  They  had  come  to  bid  me 
farewell  and  godspeed,  all  my  friends  and  my 
relations,  and  I  went  among  them,  shaking  them 
by  the  hand  and  thinking  of  the  long  whiles  before 
I'd  be  seeing  them  again.  And  then  all  my  good- 
bys  were  said,  and  we  went  aboard,  and  my 
voyage  had  begun. 

I  looked  back  at  the  hills  and  the  heather,  and 
I  thought  of  all  I  was  to  do  and  see  before  I  saw 
those  hills  again.  I  was  going  half  way  round 
the  world  and  back  again.  I  was  going  to  won- 
derful places  to  see  wonderful  things  and  curious 
faces.  But  oftenest  the  thought  came  to  me,  as 
I  looked  at  my  son,  that  him  I  would  see  again 
before  I  saw  the  heather  and  the  hills  and  all  the 
friends  and  the  relations  I  was  leaving  behind 
me.  For  on  his  trip  around  the  world  he  was  to 
meet  us  in  Australia !  It  was  easier  to  leave  him, 
easier  to  set  out,  knowing  that,  thinking  of  that ! 


'A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 


Wonderful  places  I  went  to,  surely.  And  won- 
derful things  I  saw  and  heard.  But  the  most 
wonderful  thing  of  all  that  I  was  to  see  or  hear 
upon  that  voyage  I  did  not  dream  of  nor  foresee. 
How  was  a  mortal  man  to  foresee  f  How  was  he 
to  dream  of  it? 

Could  I  guess  that  the  very  next  time  I  set  out 
from  Dunoon  pier  the  peaceful  Clyde  would  be 
dotted  with  patrol  boats,  dashing  hither  and 
thither!  Could  I  guess  that  everywhere  there 
would  be  boys  in  khaki,  and  women  weeping,  and 

that  my  boy,  John !  Ah,  but  I'll  not  tell  you 

of  that  now. 

Peaceful  the  Clyde  had  been,  and  peaceful  was 
the  Mersey  when  we  sailed  from  Liverpool  for 
New  York.  I  look  back  on  yon  voyage — the  last 
I  took  that  way  in  days  of  peace.  Next  time! 
Destroyers  to  guard  us  from  the  Hun  and  his  sub- 
marines, and  to  lay  us  a  safe  course  through  the 
mines.  And  sailor  boys,  about  their  guns,  watch- 
ing, sweeping  the  sea  every  minute  for  the  flash 
of  a  sneaking  pirate's  periscope  showing  for  a 
second  above  a  wave! 

But  then !  It  was  a  quiet  trip,  with  none  but 
the  ups  and  doons  of  every  Atlantic  crossing — 
more  ups  than  doons,  I'm  telling  you! 

I  was  glad  to  be  in  America  again,  glad  to  see 
once  more  the  friends  I'd  made.  They  turned  out 
to  meet  me  and  to  greet  me  in  New  York,  and  as 
I  travelled  across  the  continent  to  San  Francisco 


4  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

it  was  the  same.  Everywhere  I  had  friends; 
everywhere  they  came  crowding  to  shake  me  by 
the  hand  with  a  "How  are  you  the  day, 
Harry?" 

It  was  a  long  trip,  but  it  was  a  happy  one. 
How  long  ago  it  seems  now,  as  I  write,  in  this  new 
day  of  war  1  How  far  away  are  all  the  common, 
kindly  things  that  then  I  did  not  notice,  and  that 
now  I  would  give  the  world  and  a*  to  have  back 
again ! 

Then,  everywhere  I  went,  they  pressed  their 
dainties  upon  me  whenever  I  sat  down  for  a  sup 
and  a  bite.  The  board  groaned  with  plenty.  I 
was  in  a  rich  country,  a  country  where  there  was 
enough  for  all,  and  to  spare.  And  now,  as  I  am 
writing  I  am  travelling  again  across  America. 
And  there  is  not  enough.  When  I  sit  down  at 
table  there  is  a  card  of  Herbert  Hoover's,  bidding 
me  be  careful  how  I  eat  and  what  I  choose.  Ay, 
but  he  has  no  need  to  warn  me !  Well  I  know  the 
truth,  and  how  America  is  helping  to  feed  her 
allies  over  there,  and  so  must  be  sparing  herself. 

To  think  of  itl  In  yon  far  day  the  world  was 
all  at  peace*  And  now  that  great  America,  that 
gave  so  little  thought  to  armies  and  to  cannon,  is 
fighting  with  my  ain  British  against  the  Hun ! 

It  was  in  March  of  1914  that  we  sailed  from 
San  Francisco,  on  the  tenth  of  the  month.  It  was 
a  glorious  day  as  we  stood  on  the  deck  of  the  old 
Pacific  liner  Sonoma.  I  was  eager  and  glad  to 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 


be  off.  To  be  sure,  America  had  been  kinder  to 
me  than  ever,  and  I  was  loath,  in  a  way,  to  be 
leaving  her  and  all  the  friends  of  mine  she  held 
— old  friends  of  years,  and  new  ones  made  on  that 
trip.  But  I  was  coming  back.  And  then  there 
was  one  great  reason  for  my  eagerness  that  few 
folk  knew — that  my  son  John  was  coming  to  meet 
me  in  Australia.  I  was  missing  him  sore  already. 

They  came  aboard  the  old  tubby  liner  to  see  us 
off,  friends  by  the  score.  They  kept  me  busy 
shaking  hands. 

"Good-by,  Harry,"  they  said.  And  "Good 
luck,  Harry,"  they  cried.  And  just  before  the 
bugles  sounded  all  ashore  I  heard  a  few  of  them 
crooning  an  old  Scots  song: 

"Will  ye  no  come  back  again?" 

"Aye,  I'll  come  back  again!"  I  told  them  when 
I  heard  them. 

"Good,  Harry,  good!"  they  cried  back  to  me. 
"It's  a  promise!  We'll  be  waiting  for  you — 
waiting  to  welcome  you!" 

And  so  we  sailed  from  San  Francisco  and  from 
America,  out  through  the  Golden  Gate,  toward  the 
sunset.  Here  was  beauty  for  me,  who  loved  it — 
a  new  beauty,  such  as  I  had  not  seen  before.  They 
were  quiet  days,  happy  days,  peaceful  days.  I 
was  tired  after  my  long  tour,  and  the  days  at  sea 
rested  me,  with  good  talk  when  I  craved  it,  and 
time  to  sleep,  and  no  need  to  give  thought  to 
trains,  or  to  think,  when  I  went  to  bed,  that  in 


the  night  they'd  rouse  me  from  my  sleep  by 
switching  my  car  and  giving  me  a  bump. 

We  came  first  to  Hawaii,  and  I  fell  in  love  with 
the  harbor  of  Honolulu  as  we  sailed  in.  Here,  at 
last,  I  began  to  see  the  strange  sights  and  hear  the 
strange  sounds  I  had  been  looking  forward  to 
ever  since  I  left  my  wee  hoose  at  Dunoon.  Here 
was  something  that  was  different  from  anything 
that  I  had  ever  seen  before. 

We  did  not  stay  so  long.  On  the  way  home  I 
was  to  stay  over  and  give  a  performance  in 
Honolulu,  but  not  now.  Our  time  was  given  up 
to  sight  seeing,  and  to  meeting  some  of  the  folk 
of  the  islands.  They  ken  hospitality!  We  made 
many  new  friends  there,  short  as  the  time  was. 
And,  man !  The  lassies !  You  want  to  cuddle  the 
first  lassie  you  meet  when  you  step  ashore  at 
Honolulu.  But  you  don't — if  the  wife  is  there! 

It  was  only  because  I  knew  that  we  were  to  stop 
longer  on  the  way  back  that  I  was  willing  to  leave 
Honolulu  at  all.  So  we  sailed  on,  toward  Aus- 
tralia. And  now  I  knew  that  my  boy  was  about 
setting  out  on  his  great  voyage  around  the  world. 
Day  by  day  I  would  get  out  the  map,  and  try  to 
prick  the  spot  where  he'd  be. 

And  I'd  think:  "Aye!  When  I'm  here  John '11 
be  there !  Will  he  be  nearer  to  me  than  now?" 

Thinking  of  the  braw  laddie,  setting  out,  so 
proud  and  happy,  made  me  think  of  my  ain  young 
days.  My  father  couldna'  give  me  such  a  chance 


'A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 


as  my  boy  was  to  have.  I'd  worked  in  the  mines 
before  I  was  John's  age.  There 'd  been  no  Cam- 
bridge for  me — no  trip  around  the  world  as  a  part 
of  my  education.  And  I  thanked  God  that  he  was 
letting  me  do  so  much  for  my  boy. 

Aye,  and  he  deserved  it,  did  John !  He  'd  done 
well  at  Cambridge;  he  had  taken  honors  there. 
And  soon  he  was  to  go  up  to  London  to  read  for 
the  Bar.  He  was  to  be  a  barrister,  in  wig  and 
gown,  my  son,  John! 

It  was  of  him,  and  of  the  meeting  we  were  all 
to  have  in  Australia,  that  I  thought,  more  than 
anything  else,  in  the  long,  long  days  upon  the  sea. 
We  sailed  on  from  Honolulu  until  we  came  to 
Paga-Paga.  So  it  is  spelled,  but  all  the  natives 
call  it  Panga-Panga. 

Here  I  saw  more  and  yet  more  of  the  strange 
and  wonderful  things  I  had  thought  upon  so  long 
back,  in  Dunoon.  Here  I  saw  mankind,  for  the 
first  time,  in  a  natural  state.  I  saw  men  who  wore 
only  the  figleaf  of  old  Father  Adam,  and  a  people 
who  lived  from  day  to  day,  and  whom  the  kindly 
earth  sustained. 

They  lived  entirely  from  vegetables  and  from 
clear  crystal  streams  and  upon  marvelous  fish 
from  the  sea.  Ah,  how  I  longed  to  stay  in  Paga- 
Paga  and  be  a  natural  man.  But  I  must  go  on. 
Work  called  me  back  to  civilization  and  sorrow- 
fully I  heeded  its  call  and  waved  good-by  to  the 
natural  folk  of  Paga-Paga ! 


8  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

It  was  before  I  came  to  Paga-Paga  that  I  wrote 
a  little  verse  inspired  by  Honolulu.  Perhaps,  if 
I  had  gone  first  to  Paga-Paga — don't  forget  to 
put  in  the  n  and  call  it  Panga-Panga  when  you 
say  it  to  yourself! — I  might  have  written  it  of 
that  happy  island  of  the  natural  folk.  But  I  did 
not,  so  here  is  the  verse : 

I  love  you,  Honolulu,  Honolulu  I  love  you! 

You  are  the  Queen  of  the  Sea! 

Your  valleys  and  mountains 

Your  palais   and  fountains 

Forever  and  ever  will  be  dear  to  me! 

I  wedded  a  simple  melody  to  those  simple,  heart- 
felt lines,  and  since  then  I  have  sung  the  song  in 
pretty  nearly  every  part  of  the  world — and  in 
Honolulu  itself. 

Our  journey  was  drawing  to  its  end.  We  were 
coming  to  a  strange  land  indeed.  And  yet  I  knew 
there  were  Scots  folk  there — where  in  the  world 
are  there  not?  I  thought  they  would  be  glad  to 
see  me,  but  how  could  I  be  sure?  It  was  a  far, 
far  cry  from  Dunoon  and  the  Clyde  and  the  frost 
upon  the  heather  on  the  day  I  had  set  out. 

We  were  to  land  at  Sydney.  I  was  a  wee  bit 
impatient  after  we  had  made  our  landfall,  while 
the  old  Sonoma  poked  her  way  along.  But  she 
would  not  be  hurried  by  my  impatience.  And  at 
last  we  came  to  the  Sydney  Heads — the  famous 
Harbor  Heads.  If  you  have  never  seen  it  I  do 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 


not  know  how  better  to  tell  you  of  it  than  to  say 
that  it  makes  me  think  of  the  entrance  to  a  great 
cave  that  has  no  roof.  In  we  went — and  were 
within  that  great,  nearly  landlocked  harbor. 

And  what  goings  on  there  were!  The  harbor 
was  full  of  craft,  both  great  and  sma'.  And  each 
had  all  her  bunting  flying.  Oh,  they  were  braw 
in  the  sunlight,  with  the  gay  colors  and  the  bits 
of  flags,  all  fluttering  and  waving  in  the  breeze! 

And  what  a  din  there  was,  with  the  shrieking 
of  the  whistle  and  the  foghorns  and  the  sirens  and 
the  clamor  of  bells.  It  took  my  breath  away,  and 
I  wondered  what  was  afoot.  And  on  the  shore 
I  could  see  that  thousands  of  people  waited,  all 
crowded  together  by  the  water  side.  There  were 
flags  flying,  too,  from  all  the  buildings. 

"It  must  be  that  the  King  is  coming  in  on  a 
visit — and  I  never  to  have  heard  of  it ! "  I  thought. 

And  then  they  made  me  understand  that  it  was 
all  for  me ! 

If  there  were  tears  in  my  eyes  when  they  made 
me  believe  that,  will  you  blame  me?  There  was 
that  great  harbor,  all  alive  with  the  welcome  they 
made  for  me.  And  on  the  shore,  they  told  me,  a 
hundred  thousand  were  waiting  to  greet  me  and 
bid  me: 

" Welcome,  Harry!" 

The  tramways  had  stopped  running  until  they 
had  done  with  their  welcome  to  me.  And  all  over 
the  city,  as  we  drove  to  our  hotel,  they  roared 


10  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

their  welcome,  and  there  were  flags  along  the 
way. 

That  was  the  proudest  day  I  had  ever  known. 
But  one  thing  made  me  wistful  and  wishful.  I 
wanted  my  boy  to  be  there  with  us.  I  wished  he 
had  seen  how  they  had  greeted  his  Dad.  Nothing 
pleased  him  more  than  an  honor  that  came  to  me. 
And  here  was  an  honor  indeed — a  reception  the 
like  of  which  I  had  never  seen0 


CHAPTER  II 

IT  was  on  the  twenty-ninth  day  of  March,  in 
that  year  of  1914  that  dawned  in  peace  and 
happiness  and  set  in  blood  and  death  and 
bitter  sorrow,  that  we  landed  in  Sydney.  Soon 
I  went  to  work.  Everywhere  my  audiences 
showed  me  that  that  great  and  wonderful  recep- 
tion that  had  been  given  to  me  on  the  day  we 
landed  had  been  only  an  earnest  of  what  was  to 
come.  They  greeted  me  everywhere  with  cheers 
and  tears,  and  everywhere  we  made  new  friends, 
and  sometimes  found  old  ones  of  whom  we  had 
not  heard  for  years. 

And  I  was  thinking  all  the  time,  now,  of  my 
boy.  He  was  on  his  way.  He  was  on  the  Pacific. 
He  was  coming  to  me,  across  the  ocean,  and  I 
could  smile  as  I  thought  of  how  this  thing  and  that 
would  strike  him,  and  of  the  smile  that  would  light 
up  his  face  now  and  the  look  of  joy  that  would 
come  into  his  eyes  at  the  sudden  sighting  of  some 
beautiful  spot.  Oh,  aye — those  were  happy  days 
when  each  one  brought  my  boy  nearer  to  me. 

One  day,  I  mind,  the  newspapers  were  full  of 
the  tale  of  a  crime  in  an  odd  spot  in  Europe  that 
none  of  us  had  ever  heard  of  before.  You  mind 

the  place?    Serajevo!    Aye — we  all  mind  it  now! 

11 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 


But  then  we  read,  and  wondered  how  that  out- 
landish name  might  be  pronounced.  A  foreigner 
was  murdered  —  what  if  he  was  a  prince,  the  Arch- 
duke of  Austria?  Need  we  fash  ourselves  about 
him? 

And  so  we  read,  and  were  sorry,  a  little,  for 
the  puir  lady  who  sat  beside  the  Archduke  and 
was  killed  with  him.  And  then  we  forgot  it.  All 
Australia  did.  There  was  no  more  in  the  news- 
papers. And  my  son  John  was  coming  —  coming. 
Each  day  he  was  so  many  hundred  miles  nearer 
to  me.  And  at  last  he  came.  We  were  in  Mel- 
bourne then,  it  was  near  to  the  end  of  July. 

We  had  much  to  talk  about  —  son,  and  his 
mother  and  I.  It  was  long  months  since  we  had 
seen  him,  and  we  had  seen  and  done  so  much. 
The  time  flew  by.  Maybe  we  did  not  read  the 
papers  so  carefully  as  we  might  have  done.  They 
tell  me,  they  have  told  me,  since  then,  that  in 
Europe  and  even  in  America,  there  was  some 
warning  after  Austria  moved  on  Serbia.  But  I 
believe  that  down  there  in  Australia  they  did  not 
dream  of  danger  ;  that  they  were  far  from  under- 
standing the  meaning  of  the  news  the  papers  did 
print.  They  were  so  far  away! 

And  then,  you  ken,  it  came  upon  us  like  a  clap 
of  thunder.  One  night  it  began.  There  was  war 
in  Europe  —  real  war.  Germany  had  attacked 
France  and  Russia.  She  was  moving  troops 
through  Belgium.  And  every  Briton  knew  what 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  13 

that  must  mean.  Would  Britain  be  drawn  in! 
There  was  the  question  that  was  on  every  man's 
tongue. 

1  'What  do  you  think,  son?"  I  asked  John. 

"I  think  we'll  go  in,"  he  said.  "And  if  we  do, 
you  know,  Dad — they'll  send  for  me  to  come  home 
at  once.  I'm  on  leave  from  the  summer  training 
camp  now  to  make  this  trip." 

My  boy,  two  years  before,  had  joined  the  Ter- 
ritorial army.  He  was  a  second  lieutenant  in  a 
Territorial  battalion  of  the  Argyle  and  Suther- 
land Highlanders.  It  was  much  as  if  he  had  been 
an  officer  in  a  National  Guard  regiment  in  the 
United  States.  The  territorial  army  was  not 
bound  to  serve  abroad — but  who  could  doubt  that 
it  would,  and  gladly.  As  it  did — to  a  man,  to  a 
man. 

But  it  was  a  shock  to  me  when  John  said  that. 
I  had  not  thought  that  war,  even  if  it  came,  could 
come  home  to  us  so  close — and  so  soon. 

Yet  so  it  was.  The  next  day  was  the  fourth  of 
August — my  birthday.  And  it  was  that  day  that 
Britain  declared  war  upon  Germany.  We  sat  at 
lunch  in  the  hotel  at  Melbourne  when  the  news- 
boys began  to  cry  the  extras.  And  we  were  still 
at  lunch  when  the  hall  porter  came  in  from 
outside. 

"Lef tenant  Lauder!"  he  called,  over  and  over. 
John  beckoned  to  him,  and  he  handed  my  laddie 
a  cablegram. 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 


Just  two  words  there  were,  that  had  come  sing- 
ing along  the  wires  half  way  around  the  world. 

''Mobilize.    Keturn." 

John's  eyes  were  bright.  They  were  shining. 
He  was  looking  at  us,  but  he  was  not  seeing  us. 
Those  eyes  of  his  were  seeing  distant  things.  My 
heart  was  sore  within  me,  but  I  was  proud  and 
happy  that  it  was  such  a  son  I  had  to  give  my 
country. 

"What  do  you  think,  Dad?"  he  asked  me,  when 
I  had  read  the  order. 

I  think  I  was  gruff  because  I  dared  not  let  him 
see  how  I  felt.  His  mother  was  very  pale. 

"This  is  no  time  for  thinking,  son,"  I  said. 
"It  is  the  time  for  action.  You  know  your  duty." 

He  rose  from  the  table,  quickly. 

"I'm  off!"  he  said. 

'  '  Where  t  "  I  asked  him. 

"To  the  ticket  office  to  see  about  changing  my 
berth.  There's  a  steamer  this  week  —  maybe  I 
can  still  find  room  aboard  her." 

He  was  not  long  gone.  He  and  his  chum  went 
down  together  and  he  came  back  smiling  tri- 
umphantly. 

"It's  all  right,  Dad,"  he  told  me.  "I  go  to 
Adelaide  by  train  and  get  the  steamer  there.  I'll 
have  time  to  see  you  and  mother  off  —  your 
steamer  goes  two  hours  before  my  train." 

We  were  going  to  New  Zealand.  And  my  boy 
was  going  home  to  fight  for  his  country.  They 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  15 

would  call  me  too  old,  I  knew — I  was  forty-four 
the  day  Britain  declared  war. 

What  a  turmoil  there  was  about  us!  So  fast 
were  things  moving  that  there  seemed  no  time  for 
thought.  John's  mother  and  I  could  not  realize 
the  full  meaning  of  all  that  was  happening.  But 
we  knew  that  John  was  snatched  away  from  us 
just  after  he  had  come,  and  it  was  hard — it  was 
cruelly  hard. 

But  such  thoughts  were  drowned  in  the  great, 
surging  excitement  that  was  all  about  us.  In 
Melbourne,  and  I  believe  it  must  have  been  much 
the  same  elsewhere  in  Australia,  folks  didn't 
know  what  they  were  to  do,  how  they  were  to  take 
this  war  that  had  come  so  suddenly  upon  them. 
And  rumors  and  questions  flew  in  all  directions. 

Suppose  the  Germans  came  to  Australia?  Was 
there  a  chance  of  that?  They  had  islands,  naval 
bases,  not  so  far  away.  They  were  Australia's 
neighbors.  What  of  the  German  navy?  Was  it 
out?  Were  there  scattered  ships,  here  and  there, 
that  might  swoop  down  upon  Australia's  shores 
and  bring  death  and  destruction  with  them? 

But  even  before  we  sailed,  next  day,  I  could  see 
that  order  was  coming  out  of  that  chaos.  Every- 
where recruiting  offices  were  opening,  and  men 
were  flocking  to  them.  No  one  dreamed,  really, 
of  a  long  war — though  John  laughed,  sadly,  when 
someone  said  it  would  be  over  in  four  months. 
But  these  Australians  took  no  chances;  they 


16  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

would  offer  themselves  first,  and  let  it  be  decided 
later  whether  they  were  needed. 

So  we  sailed  away.  And  when  I  took  John's 
hand,  and  kissed  him  good-by,  I  saw  him  for  the 
last  time  in  his  civilian  clothes. 

"Well,  son,"  I  said,  "  you  're  going  home  to  be  a 
soldier,  a  fighting  soldier.  You  will  soon  be  com- 
manding men.  Eemember  that  you  can  never  ask 
a  man  to  do  something  you  would  no  dare  to  do 
yourself ! ' ' 

And,  oh,  the  braw  look  in  the  eyes  of  the  bonnie 
laddie  as  he  tilted  his  chin  up  to  me ! 

"I  will  remember,  Dad!"  he  said. 

And  so  long  as  a  bit  of  the  dock  was  in  sight 
we  could  see  him  waving  to  us.  We  were  not  to 
see  him  again  until  the  next  January,  at  Bedford, 
in  England,  where  he  was  training  the  raw  men 
of  his  company. 

Those  were  the  first  days  of  war.  The  British 
navy  was  on  guard.  From  every  quarter  the 
whimpering  wireless  brought  news  of  this  Ger- 
man warship  and  that.  They  were  scattered  far 
and  wide,  over  the  Seven  Seas,  you  ken,  when  the 
war  broke  out.  There  was  no  time  for  them  to 
make  a  home  port.  They  had  their  choice,  most 
of  them,  between  being  interned  in  some  neutral 
port  and  setting  out  to  do  as  much  mischief  as 
they  could  to  British  commerce  before  they  were 
caught.  Caught  they  were  sure  to  be.  They  must 
have  known  it.  And  some  there  were  to  brave  the 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  17 

issue  and  match  themselves  against  England's 
great  naval  power. 

Perhaps  they  knew  that  few  ports  would  long 
be  neutral!  Maybe  they  knew  of  the  abominable 
war  the  Hun  was  to  wage.  But  I  think  it  was  not 
such  men  as  those  who  chose  to  take  their  one 
chance  in  a  thousand  who  were  sent  out,  later,  in 
their  submarines,  to  send  women  and  babies  to 
their  deaths  with  their  torpedoes ! 

Be  that  as  it  may,  we  sailed  away  from  Mel- 
bourne. But  it  was  in  Sydney  Harbor  that  we 
anchored  next — not  in  Wellington,  as  we,  on  the 
ship,  all  thought  it  would  be !  And  the  reason  was 
that  the  navy,  getting  word  that  the  German 
cruiser  Emden  was  loose  and  raiding,  had  ordered 
our  captain  to  hug  the  shore,  and  to  put  in  at 
Sydney  until  he  was  told  it  was  safe  to  proceed. 

We  were  not  much  delayed,  and  came  to  Well- 
ington safely.  New  Zealand  was  all  ablaze  with 
the  war  spirit.  There  was  no  hesitation  there. 
The  New  Zealand  troops  were  mobilizing  when 
we  arrived,  and  every  recruiting  office  was  be- 
sieged with  men.  Splendid  laddies  they  were, 
who  looked  as  if  they  would  give  a  great  account 
of  themselves.  As  they  did — as  they  did.  Their 
deeds  at  Gallipoli  speak  for  them  and  will  forever 
speak  for  them — the  men  of  Australia  and  New 
Zealand. 

There  the  word  Anzac  was  made — made  from 
the  first  letters  of  these  words  i  Australian  New 


18  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

Zealand  Army  Corps.     It  is  a  word  that  will 
never  die. 

Even  in  the  midst  of  war  they  had  time  to  give 
me  a  welcome  that  warmed  my  heart.  And  there 
were  pipers  with  them,  too,  skirling  a  tune  as  I 
stepped  ashore.  There  were  tears  in  my  eyes 
again,  as  there  had  been  at  Sydney.  Every  laddie 
in  uniform  made  me  think  of  my  own  boy,  well 
off,  by  now,  on  his  way  home  to  Britain  and  the 
duty  that  had  called  him. 

They  were  gathering,  all  over  the  Empire,  those 
of  British  blood.  They  were  answering  the  call 
old  Britain  had  sent  across  the  seven  seas  to  the 
far  corners  of  the  earth.  Even  as  the  Scottish 
clans  gathered  of  old  the  greater  British  clans 
were  gathering  now.  It  was  a  great  thing  to  see 
that  in  the  beginning ;  it  has  comforted  me  many  a 
time  since,  in  a  black  hour,  when  news  was  bad 
and  the  Hun  was  thundering  at  the  line  that  was 
so  thinly  held  in  France. 

Here  were  free  peoples,  not  held,  not  bound, 
free  to  choose  their  way.  Britain  could  not  make 
their  sons  come  to  her  aid.  If  they  came  they 
must  come  freely,  joyously,  knowing  that  it  was  a 
right  cause,  a  holy  cause,  a  good  cause,  that  called 
them.  I  think  of  the  way  they  came — of  the  way 
I  saw  them  rising  to  the  summons,  in  New  Zea- 
land, in  Australia,  later  in  Canada.  Aye,  and  I 
saw  more — I  saw  Americans  slipping  across  the 
border,  putting  on  Britain's  khaki  there  in 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  19 

Canada,  because  they  knew  that  it  was  the  fight 
of  humanity,  of  freedom,  that  they  were  entering. 
And  that,  too,  gave  me  comfort  later  in  dark 
times,  for  it  made  me  know  that  when  the  right 
time  came  America  would  take  her  place  beside 
old  Britain  and  brave  France. 

New  Zealand  is  a  bonnie  land.  It  made  me 
think,  sometimes,  of  the  Hielands  of  Scotland.  A 
bonnie  land,  and  braw  are  its  people.  They  made 
me  happy  there,  and  they  made  much  of  me. 

At  Christchurch  they  did  a  strange  thing.  They 
were  selling  off,  at  auction,  a  Union  Jack — the 
flag  of  Britain.  Such  a  thing  had  never  been  done 
before,  or  thought  of.  But  here  was  a  reason  and 
a  good  one.  Money  was  needed  for  the  laddies 
who  were  going — needed  for  all  sorts  of  things. 
To  buy  them  small  comforts,  and  tobacco,  and 
such  things  as  the  government  might  not  be  sup- 
plying them.  And  so  they  asked  me  to  be  their 
auctioneer. 

I  played  a  fine  trick  upon  them  there  in  Christ- 
church.  But  I  was  not  ashamed  of  myself,  and 
I  think  they  have  forgi'en  me — those  good  bodies 
at  Christchurch! 

Here  was  the  way  of  it.  I  was  auctioneer,  you 
ken — but  that  was  not  enough  to  keep  me  from 
bidding  myself.  And  so  I  worked  them  up  and 
on — and  then  I  bid  in  the  flag  for  myself  for  a 
hundred  pounds — five  hundred  dollars  of  Ameri- 
can money. 


20  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

I  had  my  doots  about  how  they'd  be  taking  it 
to  have  a  stranger  carry  their  flag  away.  And  so 
I  bided  a  wee.  I  stayed  that  night  in  Christ- 
church,  and  was  to  stay  longer.  I  could  wait. 
Above  yon  town  of  Christchurch  stretch  the 
Merino  Hills.  On  them  graze  sheep  by  the  thou- 
sand— and  it  is  from  those  sheep  that  the  true 
Merino  wool  comes.  And  in  the  gutters  of  Christ- 
church  there  flows,  all  day  long,  a  stream  of  water 
as  clear  and  pure  as  ever  you  might  hope  to  see. 
And  it  should  be  so,  for  it  is  from  artesian  wells 
that  it  is  pumped. 

Aweel,  I  bided  that  night  and  by  next  day  they 
were  murmuring  in  the  town,  and  their  murmurs 
came  to  me.  They  thought  it  wasna  richt  for  a 
Scotsman  to  be  carrying  off  their  flag — though 
he'd  bought  it  and  paid  for  it.  And  so  at  last 
they  came  to  me,  and  wanted  to  be  buying  back 
the  flag.  And  I  was  agreeable. 

"Aye — I'll  sell  it  back  to  ye!"  I  told  them. 
"But  at  a  price,  ye  ken — at  a  price!  Pay 
me  twice  what  I  paid  for  it  and  it  shall  be 
yours ! ' ' 

There  was  a  Scots  bargain  for  you !  They  must 
have  thought  me  mean  and  grasping  that  day. 
But  out  they  went.  They  worked  for  the  money. 
It  was  but  just  a  month  after  war  had  been  de- 
clared, and  money  was  still  scarce  and  shy  of 
peeping  out  and  showing  itself.  But,  bit  by  bit, 
they  got  the  siller.  A  shilling  at  a  time  they 


'A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 


raised,  by  subscription.  But  they  got  it  all,  and 
brought  it  to  me,  smiling  the  while. 

"Here,  Harry  —  here's  your  money!"  they  said. 
"Now  give  us  back  our  flagl" 

Back  to  them  I  gave  it  —  and  with  it  the  money 
they  had  brought,  to  be  added  to  the  fund  for  the 
soldier  boys.  And  so  that  one  flag  brought  three 
hundred  pounds  sterling  to  the  soldiers.  I  wonder 
did  those  folk  at  Christchurch  think  I  would  keep 
the  money  and  make  a  profit  on  that  flag? 

Had  it  been  another  time  I'd  have  stayed  in 
New  Zealand  gladly  a  long  time.  It  was  a  friendly 
place,  and  it  gave  us  many  a  new  friend.  But 
home  was  calling  me.  There  was  more  than  the 
homebound  tour  that  had  been  planned  and  laid 
out  for  me.  I  did  not  know  how  soon  my  boy 
might  be  going  to  France.  And  his  mother  and 
I  wanted  to  see  him  again  before  he  went,  and 
to  be  as  near  him  as  might  be. 

So  I  was  glad  as  well  as  sorry  to  sail  away  from 
New  Zealand's  friendly  shores,  to  the  strains  of 
pipers  softly  skirling: 

"Will  ye  no  come  back  again?" 

We  sailed  for  Sydney  on  the  Minnehaha,  a  fast 
boat.  We  were  glad  of  her  speed  a  day  or  so  out, 
for  there  was  smoke  on  the  horizon  that  gave 
some  anxious  hours  to  our  officers.  Some  thought 
the  German  raider  Emden  was  under  that  smoke. 
And  it  would  not  have  been  surprising  had  a 
raider  turned  up  in  our  path.  For  just  before  we 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 


sailed  it  had  been  discovered  that  the  man  in 
charge  of  the  principal  wireless  station  in  New 
Zealand  was  a  German,  and  he  had  been  interned. 
Had  he  sent  word  to  German  warships  of  the 
plans  and  movements  of  British  ships?  No  one 
could  prove  it,  so  he  was  only  interned. 

Back  we  went  to  Sydney.  A  great  change  had 
come  since  our  departure.  The  war  ruled  all  deed 
and  thought.  Australia  was  bound  now  to  do  her 
part.  No  less  faithfully  and  splendidly  than  New 
Zealand  was  she  engaged  upon  the  enterprise  the 
Hun  had  thrust  upon  the  world.  Everyone  was 
eager  for  news,  but  it  was  woefully  scarce.  Those 
were  the  black,  early  days,  when  the  German  rush 
upon  Paris  was  being  stayed,  after  the  disasters 
of  the  first  fortnight  of  the  war,  at  the  Marne. 

Everywhere,  though  there  was  no  lack  of  de- 
termination to  see  the  war  through  to  a  finish,  no 
matter  how  remote  that  might  be,  the  feeling  was 
that  this  war  was  too  huge,  too  vast,  to  last  long. 
Exhaustion  would  end  it.  War  upon  the  modern 
scale  could  not  last.  So  they  said  —  in  Septem- 
ber, 1914!  So  many  of  us  believed  —  and  this  is 
the  spring  of  the  fourth  year  of  the  war,  and  the 
end  is  not  yet,  is  not  in  sight,  I  fear. 

Sydney  turned  out,  almost  as  magnificently  as 
when  I  had  first  landed  upon  Australian  soil,  to 
bid  me  farewell.  And  we  embarked  again  upon 
that  same  old  Sonoma  that  had  brought  us  to 
Australia.  Again  I  saw  Paga-Paga  and  the 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  23 

natural  folk,  who  had  no  need  to  toil  nor  spin  to 
live  upon  the  fat  of  the  land  and  be  arrayed  in 
the  garments  that  were  always  up  to  the  minute 
in  style. 

Again  I  saw  Honolulu,  and,  this  time,  stayed 
longer,  and  gave  a  performance.  But,  though  we 
were  there  longer,  it  was  not  long  enough  to  make 
me  yield  to  that  temptation  to  cuddle  one  of  the 
brown  lassies!  Aweel,  I  was  not  so  young  as  I 
had  been,  and  Mrs.  Lauder — you  ken  that  she  was 
travelling  with  me  ? 

In  the  harbor  of  Honolulu  there  was  a  German 
gunboat,  the  Geier,  that  had  run  there  for  shelter 
not  long  since,  and  had  still  left  a  day  or  two, 
under  the  orders  from  Washington,  to  decide 
whether  she  would  let  herself  be  interned  or  not. 
And  outside,  beyond  the  three  mile  limit  that 
marked  the  end  of  American  territorial  waters, 
were  two  good  reasons  to  make  the  German  think 
well  of  being  interned.  They  were  two  cruisers, 
squat  and  ugly  and  vicious  in  their  gray  war 
paint,  that  watched  the  entrance  to  the  harbor  as 
you  have  seen  a  cat  watching  a  rat  hole. 

It  was  not  Britain's  white  ensign  that  they  flew, 
those  cruisers.  It  was  the  red  sun  flag  of  Japan, 
one  of  Britain's  allies  against  the  Hun.  They  had 
their  vigil  in  vain,  did  those  two  cruisers.  It  was 
valor's  better  part,  discretion,  that  the  German 
captain  chose.  Aweel,  you  could  no  blame  him! 
He  and  his  ship  would  have  been  blown  out  of  the 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 


water  so  soon  as  she  poked  her  nose  beyond 
American  waters,  had  he  chosen  to  go  out  and 
fight. 

I  was  glad  indeed  when  we  came  in  sight  of  the 
Golden  Gate  once  more,  and  when  we  were  safe 
ashore  in  San  Francisco.  It  had  been  a  nerve- 
racking  voyage  in  many  ways.  My  wife  and  I 
were  torn  with  anxiety  about  our  boy.  And  there 
were  German  raiders  loose;  one  or  two  had,  so 
far,  eluded  the  cordon  the  British  fleet  had  flung 
about  the  world.  One  night,  soon  after  we  left 
Honolulu,  we  were  stopped.  We  thought  it  was  a 
British  cruiser  that  stopped  us,  but  she  would 
only  ask  questions — answering  those  we  asked 
was  not  for  her ! 

But  we  were  ashore  at  last.  There  remained 
only  the  trip  across  the  United  States  to  New 
York  and  the  voyage  across  the  Atlantic  home. 


CHAPTER  III 

NOW  indeed  we  began  to  get  real  news  of  the 
war.  We  heard  of  how  that  little  British 
army  had  flung  itself  into  the  maw  of  the 
Hun.  I  came  to  know  something  of  the  glories  of 
the  retreat  from  Mons,  and  of  how  French  and 
British  had  turned  together  at  the  Marne  and  had 
saved  Paris.  But,  alas,  I  heard  too  of  how  many 
brave  men  had  died — had  been  sacrificed,  many 
and  many  a  man  of  them,  to  the  failure  of  Britain 
to  prepare. 

That  was  past  and  done.  What  had  been  wrong 
was  being  mended  now.  Better,  indeed — ah,  a 
thousand  times  better! — had  Britain  given  heed 
to  Lord  Roberts,  when  he  preached  the  gospel  of 
readiness  and  prayed  his  countrymen  to  prepare 
for  the  war  that  he  in  his  wisdom  had  foreseen. 
But  it  was  easier  now  to  look  into  the  future. 

I  could  see,  as  all  the  world  was  beginning  to 
see,  that  this  war  was  not  like  other  wars.  Lord 
Kitchener  had  said  that  Britain  must  make  ready 
for  a  three  year  war,  and  I,  for  one,  believed  him 
when  others  scoffed,  and  said  he  was  talking  so 
to  make  the  recruits  for  his  armies  come  faster 
to  the  colors.  I  could  see  that  this  war  might  last 

25 


26  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

for  years.  And  it  was  then,  back  in  1914,  in  the 
first  winter  of  the  war,  that  I  began  to  warn  my 
friends  in  America  that  they  might  well  expect 
the  Hun  to  drag  them  into  the  war  before  its  end. 
And  I  made  up  my  mind  that  I  must  beg  Ameri- 
cans who  would  listen  to  me  to  prepare. 

So,  all  the  way  across  the  continent,  I  spoke,  in 
every  town  we  visited,  on  that  subject  of  prepar- 
edness. I  had  seen  Britain,  living  in  just  such  a 
blissful  anticipation  of  eternal  peace  as  America 
then  dreamed  of.  I  had  heard,  for  years,  every 
attempt  that  was  made  to  induce  Britain  to  in- 
crease her  army  met  with  the  one,  unvarying 
reply. 

"We  have  our  fleet!"  That  was  the  answer 
that  was  made.  And,  be  it  remembered,  that  at 
sea,  Britain  was  prepared!  "We  have  our  fleet. 
We  need  no  army.  If  there  is  a  Continental  war, 
we  may  not  be  drawn  in  at  all.  Even  if  we  are, 
they  can't  reach  us".  The  fleet  is  between  us  and 
invasion. ' ' 

"But,"  said  the  advocates  of  preparedness, 
"we  might  have  to  send  an  expeditionary  force. 
If  France  were  attacked,  we  should  have  to  help 
her  on  land  as  well  as  at  sea.  And  we  have  sent 
armies  to  the  continent  before." 

"Yes,"  the  other  would  reply.  "We  have  an 
expeditionary  force.  We  can  send  more  than  a 
hundred  thousand  men  across  the  channel  at  short 
notice — the  shortest.  And  we  can  train  more  men 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  27 

here,  at  home,  in  case  of  need.  The  fleet  makes 
that  possible." 

Aye,  the  fleet  made  that  possible.  The  world 
may  well  thank  God  for  the  British  fleet.  I  do 
not  know,  and  I  do  not  like  to  think,  what  might 
have  come  about  save  for  the  British  fleet.  But 
I  do  know  what  came  to  that  expeditionary  force 
that  we  sent  across  the  channel  quickly,  to  the 
help  of  our  sore  stricken  ally,  France.  How  many 
of  that  old  British  army  still  survive? 

They  gave  themselves  utterly.  They  were  the 
pick  and  the  flower  of  our  trained  manhood. 
They  should  have  trained  the  millions  who  were 
to  rise  at  Kitchener's  call.  But  they  could  not  be 
held  back.  They  are  gone.  Others  have  risen  up 
to  take  their  places — ten  for  one — a  hundred  for 
one!  But  had  they  been  ready  at  the  start! 
The  bonnie  laddies  who  would  be  living  now,  in- 
stead of  lying  in  an  unmarked  grave  in  France  or 
Flanders!  The  women  whose  eyes  would  never 
have  been  reddened  by  their  weeping  as  they 
mourned  a  son  or  a  brother  or  a  husband! 

So  I  was  thinking  as  I  set  out  to  talk  to  my 
American  friends  and  beg  them  to  prepare — pre- 
pare! I  did  not  want  to  see  this  country  share 
the  experience  of  Britain.  If  she  needs  must  be 
drawn  into  the  war — and  so  I  believed,  pro- 
foundly, from  the  time  when  I  first  learned  the 
true  measure  of  the  Hun — I  hoped  that  she  might 
be  ready  when  she  drew  her  mighty  sword. 


28  'A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

They  thought  I  was  mad,  at  first,  many  of  those 
to  whom  I  talked.  They  were  so  far  away  from 
the  war.  And  already  the  propaganda  of  the  Ger- 
mans was  at  work.  Aye,  they  thought  I  was  rav- 
ing when  I  told  them  I'd  stake  my  word  on  it. 
America  would  never  be  able  to  stay  out  until  the 
end.  They  listened  to  me.  They  were  willing  to 
do  that.  But  they  listened,  doubtingly.  I  think 
I  convinced  few  of  ought  save  that  I  believed 
myself  what  I  was  saying. 

I  could  tell  them,  do  you  ken,  that  I'd  thought, 
at  first,  as  they  did  I  Why,  over  yon,  in  Aus- 
tralia, when  I'd  first  heard  that  the  Germans  were 
attacking  France,  I  was  sorry,  for  France  is  a 
bonnie  land.  But  the  idea  that  Britain  might  go 
in  I,  even  then,  had  laughed  at.  And  then  Britain 
had  gone  in !  My  own  boy  had  gone  to  the  war. 
For  all  I  knew  I  might  be  reading  of  him,  any  day, 
when  I  read  of  a  charge  or  a  fight  over  there  in 
France !  Anything  was  possible — aye,  probable ! 

I  have  never  called  myself  a  prophet.  But 
then,  I  think,  I  had  something  of  a  prophet's  vi- 
sion. And  all  the  time  I  was  struggling  with  my 
growing  belief  that  this  was  to  be  a  long  war,  and 
a  merciless  war.  I  did  not  want  to  believe  some 
of  the  things  I  knew  I  must  believe.  But  every 
day  came  news  that  made  conviction  sink  in 
'deeper  and  yet  deeper. 

It  was  not  a  happy  trip,  that  one  across  the 
United  States.  Our  friends  did  all  they  could  to 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  29 

make  it  so,  but  we  were  consumed  by  too  many 
anxieties  and  cares.  How  different  was  it  from 
my  journey  westward — only  nine  months  earlier ! 
The  world  had  changed  forever  in  those  nine 
months. 

Everywhere  I  spoke  for  preparedness.  I  ad- 
dressed the  Rotary  Clubs,  and  great  audiences 
turned  out  to  listen  to  me.  I  am  a  Rotarian 
myself,  and  I  am  proud  indeed  that  I  may  so  pro- 
claim myself.  It  is  a  great  organization.  Those 
who  came  to  hear  me  were  cordial,  nearly  always. 
But  once  or  twice  I  met  hostility,  veiled  but  not 
to  be  mistaken.  And  it  was  easy  to  trace  it  to 
its  source.  Germans,  who  loved  the  country  they 
had  left  behind  them  to  come  to  a  New  World  that 
offered  them  a  better  home  and  a  richer  life  than 
they  could  ever  have  aspired  to  at  home,  were 
often  at  the  bottom  of  the  opposition  to  what  I 
had  to  say. 

They  did  not  want  America  to  prepare,  lest  her 
weight  be  flung  into  the  scale  against  Germany. 
And  there  were  those  who  hated  Britain.  Some 
of  these  remembered  old  wars  and  grudges  that 
sensible  folk  had  forgotten  long  since;  others,  it 
may  be,  had  other  motives.  But  there  was  little 
real  opposition  to  what  I  had  to  say.  It  was 
more  a  good  natured  scoffing,  and  a  feeling  that 
I  was  cracked  a  wee  bit,  perhaps,  about  the  war. 

I  was  not  sorry  to  see  New  York  again.  We 
stayed  there  but  one  day,  and  then  sailed  for  home 


30  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

on  the  Cunarder  Orduna — which  has  since  been 
sunk,  like  many  another  good  ship,  by  the  Hun 
submarines. 

But  those  were  the  days  just  before  the  Hun 
began  his  career  of  real  frightfulness  upon  the 
sea — and  under  it.  Even  the  Hun  came  gradually 
to  the  height  of  his  powers  in  this  war.  It  was 
not  until  some  weeks  later  that  he  startled  the 
world  by  proclaiming  that  every  ship  that  dared 
to  cross  a  certain  zone  of  the  sea  would  be  sunk 
without  warning. 

When  we  sailed  upon  the  old  Orduna  we  had 
anxieties,  to  be  sure.  The  danger  of  striking  a 
mine  was  never  absent,  once  we  neared  the  British 
coasts.  There  was  always  the  chance,  we  knew, 
that  some  German  raider  might  have  slipped 
through  the  cordon  in  the  North  Sea.  But  the 
terrors  that  were  to  follow  the  crime  of  the 
Lusitania  still  lay  in  the  future.  They  were 
among  the  things  no  man  could  foresee. 

The  Orduna  brought  us  safe  to  the  Mersey  and 
we  landed  at  Liverpool.  Even  had  there  been  no 
thought  of  danger  to  the  ship,  that  voyage  would 
have  been  a  hard  one  for  us  to  endure.  We  never 
ceased  thinking  of  John,  longing  for  him  and  news 
of  him.  It  was  near  Christmas,  but  we  had  small 
hope  that  we  should  be  able  to  see  him  on  that 
day. 

All  through  the  voyage  we  were  shut  away  from 
all  news.  The  wireless  is  silenced  in  time  of  war, 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  SI 

save  for  such  work  as  the  government  allows. 
There  is  none  of  the  free  sending,  from  shore  to 
ship,  and  ship  to  ship,  of  all  the  news  of  the  world, 
such  as  one  grows  to  welcome  in  time  of  peace. 
And  so,  from  New  York  until  we  neared  the  Brit- 
ish coast,  we  brooded,  all  of  us.  How  fared  it 
with  Britain  in  the  war?  Had  the  Hun  launched 
some  new  and  terrible  attack? 

But  two  days  out  from  home  we  saw  a  sight 
to  make  us  glad  and  end  our  brooding  for  a  space. 

"Eh,  Harry — come  and  look  yon!"  someone 
called  to  me.  It  was  early  in  the  morning,  and 
there  was  a  mist  about  us. 

I  went  to  the  rail  and  looked  in  the  direction 
I  was  told.  And  there,  rising  suddenly  out  of  the 
mist,  shattering  it,  I  saw  great,  gray  ships — war- 
ships— British  battleships  and  cruisers.  There 
they  were,  some  of  the  great  ships  that  are  the 
steel  wall  around  Britain  that  holds  her  safe.  My 
heart  leaped  with  joy  and  pride  at  the  sight  of 
them,  those  great,  gray  guardians  of  the  British 
shores,  bulwarks  of  steel  that  fend  all  foemen 
from  the  rugged  coast  and  the  fair  land  that  lies 
behind  it. 

Now  we  were  safe,  ourselves !  Who  would  not 
trust  the  British  navy,  after  the  great  deeds  it  has 
done  in  this  war?  For  there,  mind  you,  is  the  one 
force  that  has  never  failed.  The  British  navy  has 
done  what  it  set  out  to  do.  It  has  kept  command 
of  the  seas.  The  submarines?  The  tin  fish? 


32  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

They  do  not  command  the  sea!  Have  they  kept 
Canada's  men,  and  America's,  from  reaching 
France? 

When  we  landed  my  first  inquiry  was  for  my 
son  John.  He  was  well,  and  he  was  still  in  Eng- 
land, in  training  at  Bedford  with  his  regiment,  the 
Argyle  and  Sutherland  Highlanders.  But  it  was 
as  we  had  feared.  Our  Christmas  must  be  kept 
apart.  And  so  the  day  before  Christmas  found 
us  back  in  our  wee  hoose  on  the  Clyde,  at  Dunoon. 
But  we  thought  of  little  else  but  the  laddie  who 
was  making  ready  to  fight  for  us,  and  of  the  day, 
that  was  coming  soon,  when  we  should  see  him. 


CHAPTER  IV 

IT  was  a  fitting  place  to  train  men  for  war,  Bed- 
ford, where  John  was  with  his  regiment,  and 
where  his  mother  and  I  went  to  see  him  so 
soon  as  we  could  after  Christmas.  It  is  in  the  Brit- 
ish midlands,  but  before  the  factory  towns  begin. 
It  is  a  pleasant,  smiling  country,  farming  country, 
mostly,  with  good  roads,  and  fields  that  gave  the 
boys  chances  to  learn  the  work  of  digging  trenches 
; — aye,  and  living  in  them  afterward. 

Bedford  is  one  of  the  great  school  towns  of 
England.  Low,  rolling  hills  lie  about  it ;  the  river 
Ouse,  a  wee,  quiet  stream,  runs  through  it. 
Schooling  must  be  in  the  air  of  Bedford  1  Three 
great  schools  for  boys  are  there,  and  two  for 
girls.  And  Liberty  is  in  the  air  of  Bedford,  too, 
I  think !  John  Bunyan  was  born  two  miles  from 
Bedford,  and  his  old  house  still  stands  in  Elstow, 
a  little  village  of  old  houses  and  great  oaks.  And 
it  was  in  Bedford  Jail  that  Bunyan  was  impris- 
oned because  he  would  fight  for  the  freedom  of 
his  own  soul. 

John  was  waiting  to  greet  us,  and  he  looked 
great.  He  had  two  stars  now  where  he  had  one 
before — he  had  been  promoted  to  first  lieutenant. 
There  were  curious  changes  in  the  laddie  I  re- 

33 


membered.  He  was  bigger,  I  thought,  and  he 
looked  older,  and  graver.  But  that  I  could  not 
wonder  at.  He  had  a  great  responsibility.  The 
lives  of  other  men  had  been  entrusted  to  him,  and 
John  was  not  the  man  to  take  a  responsibility  like 
that  lightly. 

I  saw  him  the  first  day  I  was  at  Bedford,  lead- 
ing some  of  his  men  in  a  practice  charge.  Big, 
braw  laddies  they  were — all  in  their  kilts.  He  ran 
ahead  of  them,  smiling  as  he  saw  me  watching 
them,  but  turning  back  to  cheer  them  on  if  he 
thought  they  were  not  fast  enough.  I  could  see 
as  I  watched  him  that  he  had  caught  the  habit  of 
command.  He  was  going  to  be  a  good  officer.  It 
was  a  proud  thought  for  me,  and  again  I  was  re- 
joiced that  it  was  such  a  son  that  I  was  able  to 
offer  to  my  country. 

They  were  kept  busy  at  that  training  camp. 
Men  were  needed  sore  in  France.  Eecruits  were 
going  over  every  day.  What  the  retreat  from 
Mons  and  the  Battle  of  the  Marne  had  left  of  that 
first  heroic  expeditionary  force  the  first  battle  of 
Ypres  had  come  close  to  wiping  out.  In  the 
Ypres  salient  our  men  out  there  were  hanging  on 
like  grim  death.  There  was  no  time  to  spare  at 
Bedford,  where  men  were  being  made  ready  as 
quickly  as  might  be  to  take  their  turn  in  the 
trenches. 

But  there  was  a  little  time  when  John  and  I 
could  talk. 


'A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  35 

"What  do  you  need  most,  son!"  I  asked 
him. 

"Men!"  he  cried.  "Men,  Dad,  men!  They're 
coming  in  quickly.  Oh,  Britain  has  answered 
nobly  to  the  call.  But  they're  not  coming  in 
fast  enough.  We  must  have  more  men — more 
men ! ' ' 

I  had  thought,  when  I  asked  my  question,  of 
something  John  might  be  needing  for  himself,  or 
for  his  men,  mayhap.  But  when  he  answered  me 
so  I  said  nothing.  I  only  began  to  think.  I 
wanted  to  go  myself.  But  I  knew  they  would  not 
have  me — yet  awhile,  at  any  rate.  And  still  I  felt 
that  I  must  do  something.  I  could  not  rest  idle 
while  all  around  me  men  were  giving  themselves 
and  all  they  had  and  were. 

Everywhere  I  heard  the  same  cry  that  John  had 
raised : 

"Men!    Give  us  men!" 

It  came  from  Lord  Kitchener.  It  came  from 
the  men  in  command  in  France  and  Belgium — 
that  little  strip  of  Belgium  the  Hun  had  not  been 
able  to  conquer.  It  came  from  every  broken, 
maimed  man  who  came  back  home  to  Britain  to 
be  patched  up  that  he  might  go  out  again.  There 
were  scores  of  thousands  of  men  in  Britain  who 
needed  only  the  last  quick  shove  to  send  them 
across  the  line  of  enlistment.  And  after  I  had 
thought  a  while  I  hit  upon  a  plan. 

"What  stirs  a  man's  fighting  spirit  quicker  or 


'A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 


better  than  the  right  sort  of  music?"  I  asked 
myself.  "  And  what  sort  of  music  does  it  best 
of  ant'1 

There  can  be  only  one  answer  to  that  last  ques- 
tion! And  so  I  organized  my  recruiting  band, 
that  was  to  be  famous  all  over  Britain  before  so 
very  long.  I  gathered  fourteen  of  the  best  pipers 
and  drummers  I  could  find  in  all  Scotland.  I 
equipped  them,  gave  them  the  Highland  uniform, 
and  sent  them  out,  to  travel  over  Britain  skirling 
and  drumming  the  wail  of  war  through  the 
length  and  breadth  of  the  land.  They  were  to  go 
everywhere,  carrying  the  shrieking  of  the  pipes 
into  the  highways  and  the  byways,  and  so  they 
did.  And  I  paid  the  bills. 

That  was  the  first  of  many  recruiting  bands 
that  toured  Britain.  Because  it  was  the  first,  and 
because  of  the  way  the  pipers  skirled  out  the  old 
hill  melodies  and  songs  of  Scotland,  enormous 
crowds  followed  my  band.  And  it  led  them 
straight  to  the  recruiting  stations.  There  was  a 
swing  and  a  sway  about  those  old  tunes  that  the 
young  fellows  couldn't  resist. 

The  pipers  would  begin  to  skirl  and  the  drums 
to  beat  in  a  square,  maybe,  or  near  the  railway 
station.  And  every  time  the  skirling  of  the  pipes 
would  bring  the  crowd.  Then  the  pipers  would 
march,  when  the  crowd  was  big  enough,  and  lead 
the  way  always  to  the  recruiting  place.  And  once 
they  were  there  the  young  fellows  who  weren't 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  37 

"quite  ready  to  decide"  and  the  others  who  were 
just  plain  slackers,  willing  to  let  better  men  die 
for  them,  found  it  mighty  hard  to  keep  from  going 
on  the  wee  rest  of  the  way  that  the  pipers  had  left 
them  to  make  alone ! 

It  was  wonderful  work  my  band  did,  and  when 
the  returns  came  to  me  I  felt  like  the  Pied  Piper ! 
Yes  I  did,  indeed  I 

I  did  not  travel  with  my  band.  That  would 
have  been  a  waste  of  effort.  There  was  work  for 
both  of  us  to  do,  separately.  I  was  booked  for  a 
tour  of  Britain,  and  everywhere  I  went  I  spoke, 
and  urged  the  young  men  to  enlist.  I  made  as 
many  speeches  as  I  could,  in  every  town  and  city 
that  I  visited,  and  I  made  special  trips  to  many. 
I  thought,  and  there  were  those  who  agreed 
with  me,  that  I  could,  it  might  be,  reach 
audiences  another  speaker,  better  trained  than 
I,  no  doubt,  in  this  sort  of  work,  would  not 
touch. 

So  there  was  I,  without  official  standing,  going 
about,  urging  every  man  who  could  to  don  khaki. 
I  talked  wherever  and  whenever  I  could  get  an 
audience  together,  and  I  began  then  the  habit  of 
making  speeches  in  the  theatres,  after  my  per- 
formance, that  I  have  not  yet  given  up.  I  talked 
thus  to  the  young  men. 

"If  you  don't  do  your  duty  now,"  I  told  them, 
"you  may  live  to  be  old  men.  But  even  if  you 
do,  you  will  regret  it !  Yours  will  be  a  sorrowful 


38  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

old  age.  In  the  years  to  come,  mayhap,  there'll 
be  a  wee  grandchild  nestling  on  your  knee  that  '11 
circle  its  little  arms  about  your  neck  and  look  into 
your  wrinkled  face,  and  ask  you : 

"  'How  old  are  you,  Grandpa?  You're  a  very 
old  man.' 

"How  will  you  answer  that  bairn's  question!" 
So  I  asked  the  young  men.  And  then  I  an- 
swered for  them:  "I  don't  know  how  old  I 
am,  but  I  am  so  old  that  I  can  remember  the  great 
war." 

"And  then" — I  told  them,  the  young  men  who 
were  wavering — "and  then  will  come  the  ques- 
tion that  you  will  always  have  to  dread — when 
you  have  won  through  to  the  old  age  that  may  be 
yours  in  safety  if  you  shirk  now !  For  the  bairn 
will  ask  you,  straightaway:  'Did  you  fight  in  the 
great  war,  Grandpa?  What  did  you  do?' 

"God  help  the  man,"  I  told  them,  "who  cannot 
hand  it  down  as  a  heritage  to  his  children  and 
his  children's  children  that  he  fought  in  the  great 
war!" 

I  must  have  impressed  many  a  brave  lad  who 
wanted  only  a  bit  of  resolution  to  make  him  do  his 
duty.  They  tell  me  that  I  and  my  band  together 
influenced  more  than  twelve  thousand  men  to  join 
the  colors ;  they  give  me  credit  for  that  many,  in 
one  way  and  another.  I  am  proud  of  that.  But 
I  am  prouder  still  of  the  way  the  boys  who  en- 
listed upon  my  urging  feel.  Never  a  one  has  up- 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  89 

braided  me ;  never  a  one  has  told  me  he  was  sorry 
he  had  heard  me  and  been  led  to  go. 

It  is  far  otherwise.  The  laddies  who  went  be- 
cause of  me  called  me  their  godfather,  many  of 
them!  Many's  the  letter  I  have  had  from  them; 
many  the  one  who  has  greeted  me,  as  I  was  pass- 
ing through  a  hospital,  or,  long  afterward,  when 
I  made  my  first  tour  in  France,  behind  the  front 
line  trenches.  Many  letters,  did  I  say?  I  have 
had  hundreds — thousands!  And  not  so  much  as 
a  word  of  regret  in  any  one  of  them. 

It  was  not  only  in  Britain  that  I  influenced 
enlistments.  I  preached  the  cause  of  the  Empire 
in  Canada,  later.  And  here  is  a  bit  of  verse  that 
a  Canadian  sergeant  sent  to  me.  He  dedicated  it 
to  me,  indeed,  and  I  am  proud  and  glad  that  he 
did. 

''ONE  OF  THE  BOYS  WHO  WENT" 

Say,  here  now,  Mate, 
Don't  you  figure  it's  great 

To  think  when  this  war  is  all  over; 
When  we're  through  with  this  mud, 
And  spilling  o'  blood, 

And  we're  shipped  back  again  to  old  Dover. 
When  they've  paid  us  our  tin, 
And  we  've  blown  the  lot  in, 

And  our  last  penny  is  spent ; 
We'll  still  have  a  thought — 
If  it's  all  that  we've  got — 

I'm  one  of  the  boys  who  went! 


40  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

And  perhaps  later  on 

When  your  wild  days  are  gone, 

You'll  be  settling  down  for  life. 
You've  a  girl  in  your  eye 
You'll  ask  bye  and  bye 

To  share  up  with  you  as  your  wife. 
When  a  few  years  have  flown, 
And  you've  kids  of  your  own, 

And  you're  feeling  quite  snug  and  content; 
It'll  make  your  heart  glad 
|When  they  boast  of  their  dad 

As  one  of  the  boys  who  went ! 


There  was  much  work  for  me  to  'do  b'eside  my 
share  in  the  campaign  to  increase  enlistments. 
Every  day  now  the  wards  of  the  hospitals  were 
filling  up.  Men  suffering  from  frightful  wounds 
came  back  to  be  mended  and  made  as  near  whole 
as  might  be.  And  among  them  there  was  work 
for  me,  if  ever  the  world  held  work  for  any  man. 

I  did  not  wait  to  begin  my  work  in  the  hospitals. 
Everywhere  I  went,  where  there  were  wounded 
men,  I  sang  for  those  who  were  strong  enough  to 
be  allowed  to  listen,  and  told  them  stories,  and  did 
all  I  could  to  cheer  them  up.  It  was  heartrend- 
ing work,  oftentimes.  There  were  dour  sights, 
dreadful  sights  in  those  hospitals.  There  were 
wounds  the  memory  of  which  robbed  me  of  sleep. 
There  were  men  doomed  to  blindness  for  the  rest 
of  their  lives. 

But  over  all  there  was  a  spirit  that  never  lagged 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  41 

or  faltered,  and  that  strengthened  me  when  I 
thought  some  sight  was  more  than  I  could  bear. 
It  was  the  spirit  of  the  British  soldier,  triumphant 
over  suffering  and  cruel  disfigurement,  with  his 
inevitable  answer  to  any  question  as  to  how  he 
was  getting  on.  I  never  heard  that  answer  varied 
when  a  man  could  speak  at  all.  Always  it  was 
the  same.  Two  words  were  enough. 
"All  right!" 


CHAPTER  V 

A3  I  went  about  the  country  now,  working 
hard  to  recruit  men,  to  induce  people  to 
subscribe  to  the  war  loan,  doing  all  the 
things  in  which  I  saw  a  chance  to  make  myself 
useful,  there  was  now  an  ever  present  thought. 
When  would  John  go  out?  He  must  go  soon.  I 
knew  that,  so  did  his  mother.  We  had  learned 
that  he  would  not  be  sent  without  a  chance  to  bid 
us  good-by.  There  we  were  better  off  than  many 
a  father  and  mother  in  the  early  days  of  the  war. 
Many's  the  mother  who  learned  first  that  her  lad 
had  gone  to  France  when  they  told  her  he  was 
dead.  And  many's  the  lassie  who  learned  in  the 
same  way  that  her  lover  would  never  come  home 
to  be  her  husband. 

But  by  now  Britain  was  settled  down  to  war.  It 
was  as  if  war  were  the  natural  state  of  things, 
and  everything  was  adjusted  to  war  and  those 
who  must  fight  it.  And  many  things  were  ordered 
better  and  more  mercifully  than  they  had  been  at 
first. 

It  was  in  April  that  word  came  to  us.  We 
might  see  John  again,  his  mother  and  I,  if  we 
hurried  to  Bedford.  And  so  we  did.  For  once 
I  heeded  no  other  call.  It  was  a  sad  journey,  but 

42 


rA  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 


I  was  proud  and  glad  as  well  as  sorry.  John  must 
do  his  share.  There  was  no  reason  why  my  son 
should  take  fewer  risks  than  another  man's.  That 
was  something  all  Britain  was  learning  in  those 
days.  We  were  one  people.  We  must  fight  as 
one;  one  for  all — all  for  one. 

John  was  sober  when  he  met  us.  Sober,  aye! 
But  what  a  light  there  was  in  his  eyes !  He  was 
eager  to  be  at  the  Huns.  Tales  of  their  doings 
were  coming  back  to  us  now,  faster  and  faster. 
They  were  tales  to  shock  me.  But  they  were  tales, 
too,  to  whet  the  courage  and  sharpen  the  steel  of 
every  man  who  could  fight  and  meant  to  go. 

It  was  John's  turn  to  go.  So  it  was  he  felt. 
And  so  it  was  his  mother  and  I  bid  him  farewell, 
there  at  Bedford.  We  did  not  know  whether  we 
would  ever  see  him  again,  the  bonnie  laddie !  We 
had  to  bid  him  good-by,  lest  it  be  our  last  chance. 
For  in  Britain  we  knew,  by  then,  what  were  the 
chances  they  took,  those  boys  of  ours  who  went 
out. 

" Good-by,  son — good  luck!" 

* '  Good-by,  Dad.    See  you  when  I  get  leave ! ' ' 

That  was  all.  We  were  not  allowed  to  know 
more  than  that  he  was  ordered  to  France. 
Whereabouts  in  the  long  trench  line  he  would  be 
sent  we  were  not  told.  "Somewhere  in  France." 
That  phrase,  that  had  been  dinned  so  often  into 
our  ears,  had  a  meaning  for  us  now. 

And  now,  indeed,  our  days  and  nights  were 


44-  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

anxious  ones.  The  war  was  in  our  house  as  it 
had  never  been  before.  I  could  think  of  nothing 
but  my  boy.  And  yet,  all  the  time  I  had  to  go  on. 
I  had  to  carry  on,  as  John  was  always  bidding 
his  men  do.  I  had  to  appear  daily  before  my 
audiences,  and  laugh  and  sing,  that  I  might  make 
them  laugh,  and  so  be  better  able  to  do  their  part. 

They  had  made  me  understand,  my  friends,  by 
that  time,  that  it  was  really  right  for  me  to  carry 
on  with  my  own  work.  I  had  not  thought  so  at 
first.  I  had  felt  that  it  was  wrong  for  me  to  be 
singing  at  such  a  time.  But  they  showed  me  that 
I  was  influencing  thousands  to  do  their  duty,  in 
one  way  or  another,  and  that  I  was  helping  to 
keep  up  the  spirit  of  Britain,  too. 

"Never  forget  the  part  that  plays,  Harry,"  my 
friends  told  me.  " That's  the  thing  the  Hun  can't 
understand.  He  thought  the  British  would  be 
poor  fighters  because  they  went  into  action  with 
a  laugh.  But  that's  the  thing  that  makes  them 
invincible.  You  Ve  your  part  to  do  in  keeping  up 
that  spirit." 

So  I  went  on  but  it  was  with  a  heavy  heart, 
oftentimes.  John's  letters  were  not  what  made 
my  heart  heavy.  There  was  good  cheer  in  every- 
one of  them.  He  told  us  as  much  as  the  censor's 
rules  would  let  him  of  the  front,  and  of  conditions 
as  he  found  them.  They  were  still  bad — cruelly 
bad.  But  there  was  no  word  of  complaint  from 
John. 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  45 

The  Germans  still  had  the  best  of  us  in  guns  in 
those  days,  although  we  were  beginning  to  catch 
up  with  them.  And  they  knew  more  about  making 
themselves  comfortable  in  the  trenches  than  did 
our  boys.  No  wonder !  They  spent  years  of  plan- 
ning and  making  ready  for  this  war.  And  it  has 
not  taken  us  so  long,  all  things  considered,  to 
catch  up  with  them. 

John's  letters  were  cheery  and  they  came  regu- 
larly, too,  for  a  time.  But  I  suppose  it  was  be- 
cause they  left  out  so  much,  because  there  was  so 
great  a  part  of  my  boy's  life  that  was  hidden  from 
me,  that  I  found  myself  thinking  more  and  more 
of  John  as  a  wee  bairn  and  as  a  lad  growing  up. 

He  was  a  real  boy.  He  had  the  real  boy's  spirit 
of  fun  and  mischief.  There  was  a  story  I  had 
often  told  of  him  that  came  to  my  mind  now.  We 
were  living  in  Glasgow.  One  drizzly  day,  Mrs. 
Lauder  kept  John  in  the  house,  and  he  spent  the 
time  standing  at  the  parlor  window  looking  down 
on  the  street,  apparently  innocently  interested  in 
the  passing  traffic. 

In  Glasgow  it  is  the  custom  for  the  coal  dealers 
to  go  along  the  streets  with  their  lorries,  crying 
their  wares,  much  after  the  manner  of  a  vegetable 
peddler  in  America.  If  a  housewife  wants  any 
coal,  she  goes  to  the  window  when  she  hears  the 
hail  of  the  coal  man,  and  holds  up  a  finger,  or  two 
fingers,  according  to  the  number  of  sacks  of  coal 
she  wants. 


46  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

To  Mrs.  Lander's  surprise,  and  finally  to  her 
great  vexation,  coal  men  came  tramping  up  our 
stairs  every  few  minutes  all  afternoon,  each  one 
staggering  under  the  weight  of  a  hundredweight 
sack  of  coal.  She  had  ordered  no  coal  and  she 
wanted  no  coal,  but  still  the  coal  men  came — a 
veritable  pest  of  them. 

They  kept  coming,  too,  until  she  discovered  that 
little  John  was  the  author  of  their  grimy  pil- 
grimages to  our  door.  He  was  signalling  every 
passing  lorrie  from  the  window  in  the  Glasgow 
coal  code ! 

I  watched  him  from  that  window  another  day 
when  he  was  quarreling  with  a  number  of  play- 
mates in  the  street  below.  The  quarrel  finally 
ended  in  a  fight.  John  was  giving  one  lad  a  pretty 
good  pegging,  when  the  others  decided  that  the 
battle  was  too  much  his  way,  and  jumped  on  him. 

John  promptly  executed  a  strategic  retreat. 
He  retreated  with  considerable  speed,  too.  I  saw 
him  running ;  I  heard  the  patter  of  his  feet  on  our 
stairs,  and  a  banging  at  our  door.  I  opened  it  and 
admitted  a  flushed,  disheveled  little  warrior,  and 
I  heard  the  other  boys  shouting  up  the  stairs  what 
they  would  do  to  him. 

By  the  time  I  got  the  door  closed,  and  got  back 
to  our  little  parlor,  John  was  standing  at  the 
window,  giving  a  marvelous  pantomime  for  the 
benefit  of  his  enemies  in  the  street.  He  was  put- 
ting his  small,  clenched  fist  now  to  his  nose,  and 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  47 

now  to  his  jaw,  to  indicate  to  the  youngsters  what 
he  was  going  to  do  to  them  later  on. 

Those,  and  a  hundred  other  little  incidents, 
were  as  fresh  in  my  memory  as  if  they  had  only 
occurred  yesterday.  His  mother  and  I  recalled 
them  over  and  over  again.  From  the  day  John 
was  born,  it  seems  to  me  the  only  things  that 
really  interested  me  were  the  things  in  which  he 
was  concerned.  I  used  to  tuck  him  in  his  crib  at 
night.  The  affairs  of  his  babyhood  were  far  more 
important  to  me  than  my  own  personal  affairs. 

I  watched  him  grow  and  develop  with  enormous 
pride,  and  he  took  great  pride  in  me.  That  to  me 
was  far  sweeter  than  praise  from  crowned  heads. 
Soon  he  was  my  constant  companion.  He  was  my 
business  confidant.  More — he  was  my  most  inti- 
mate friend. 

There  were  no  secrets  between  us.  I  think  that 
John  and  I  talked  of  things  that  few  fathers  and 
sons  have  the  courage  to  discuss.  He  never  feared 
to  ask  my  advice  on  any  subject,  and  I  never 
feared  to  give  it  to  him. 

I  wish  you  could  have  known  my  son  as  he  was 
to  me.  I  wish  all  fathers  could  know  their  sons 
as  I  knew  John.  He  was  the  most  brilliant  con- 
versationalist I  have  ever  known.  He  was  my 
ideal  musician. 

He  took  up  music  only  as  an  accomplishment, 
however.  He  did  not  want  to  be  a  performer, 
although  KQ  had  amazing  natural  talent  in  that 


48  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

direction.  Music  was  born  in  him.  He  could 
transpose  a  melody  in  any  key.  You  could  whistle 
an  air  for  him,  and  he  could  turn  it  into  a  little 
opera  at  once. 

However,  he  was  anxious  to  make  for  himself 
in  some  other  line  of  endeavor,  and  while  he  was 
often  my  piano  accompanist,  he  never  had  any 
intention  of  going  on  the  stage. 

When  he  was  fifteen  years  old,  I  was  com- 
manded to  appear  before  King  Edward,  who  was 
a  guest  at  Rufford  Abbey,  the  seat  of  Lord  and 
Lady  Sayville,  situated  in  a  district  called  the 
Dukeries,  and  I  took  John  as  my  accompanist. 

I  gave  my  usual  performance,  and  while  I  was 
making  my  changes,  John  played  the  piano.  At 
the  close,  King  Edward  sent  for  me,  and  thanked 
me.  It  was  a  proud  moment  for  me,  but  a  prouder 
moment  came  when  the  King  spoke  of  John's 
playing,  and  thanked  him  for  his  part  in  the  enter- 
tainment. 

There  were  curious  contradictions,  it  often 
seemed  to  me,  in  John.  His  uncle,  Tom  Vallance, 
was  in  his  day,  one  of  the  very  greatest  football 
players  in  Scotland.  But  John  never  greatly 
liked  the  game.  He  thought  it  was  too  rough.  He 
thought  any  game  was  a  poor  game  in  which 
players  were  likely  to  be  hurt.  And  yet — he  had 
been  eager  for  the  rough  game  of  war!  The 
roughest  game  of  all ! 

Ah,  but  that  was  not  a  game  to  him'!    He  was 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  49 

not  one  of  those  who  went  to  war  with  a  light 
heart,  as  they  might  have  entered  upon  a  football 
match.  All  honor  to  those  who  went  into  the  war 
so — they  played  a  great  part  and  a  noble  part! 
But  there  were  more  who  went  to  war  as  my  boy 
did — taking  it  upon  themselves  as  a  duty  and  a 
solemn  obligation.  They  had  no  illusions.  They 
did  not  love  war.  No !  John  hated  war,  and  the 
black  ugly  horrors  of  it.  But  there  were  things 
he  hated  more  than  he  hated  war.  And  one 
was  a  peace  won  through  submission  to  in- 
justice. 

Have  I  told  you  how  my  boy  looked?  He  was 
slender,  but  he  was  strong  and  wiry.  He  was 
about  five  feet  five  inches  tall ;  he  topped  his  Dad 
by  a  handspan.  And  he  was  the  neatest  boy  you 
might  ever  have  hoped  to  see.  Aye — but  he  did 
not  inherit  that  from  me !  Indeed,  he  used  to  re- 
proach me,  oftentimes,  for  being  careless  about 
my  clothes.  My  collar  would  be  loose,  perhaps,  or 
my  waistcoat  would  not  fit  just  so.  He  'd  not  like 
that,  and  he  would  tell  me  so ! 

When  he  did  that  I  would  tell  him  of  times  when 
he  was  a  wee  boy,  and  would  come  in  from  play 
with  a  dirty  face;  how  his  mother  would  order 
him  to  wash,  and  how  he  would  painstakingly  mop 
off  just  enough  of  his  features  to  leave  a  dark  ring 
abaft  his  cheeks,  and  above  his  eyes,  and  below 
his  chin. 

"You  wash  your  face,  but  never  let  on  to  your 


50  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

neck, '  '  I  would  tell  him  when  he  was  a  wee  laddie. 

He  had  a  habit  then  of  parting  and  brushing 
about  an  inch  of  his  hair,  leaving  the  rest  all 
topsy-turvy.  My  recollection  of  that  boyhood 
habit  served  me  as  a  defense  in  later  years  when 
he  would  call  my  attention  to  my  own  disordered 
hair. 

I  linger  long,  and  I  linger  lovingly  over  these 
small  details,  because  they  are  part  of  my  daily 
thoughts.  Every  day  some  little  incident  comes 
up  to  remind  me  of  my  boy.  A  battered  old 
hamper,  in  which  I  carry  my  different  character 
make-ups,  stands  in  my  dressing  room.  It  was 
John's  favorite  seat.  Every  time  I  look  at  it  I 
have  a  vision  of  a  tiny  wide-eyed  boy  perched  on 
the  lid,  watching  me  make  ready  for  the  stage. 
A  lump  rises,  unbidden,  in  my  throat. 

In  all  his  life,  I  never  had  to  admonish  my  son 
once.  Not  once.  He  was  the  most  considerate  lad 
I  have  ever  known.  He  was  always  thinking  of 
others.  He  was  always  doing  for  others. 

It  was  with  such  thoughts  as  these  that  John's 
mother  and  I  filled  in  the  time  between  his  letters. 
They  came  as  if  by  a  schedule.  We  knew  what 
post  should  bring  one.  And  once  or  twice  a  letter 
was  a  post  late  and  our  hearts  were  in  our  throats 
with  fear.  And  then  came  a  day  when  there 
should  have  been  a  letter,  and  none  came.  The 
whole  day  passed.  I  tried  to  comfort  John's 
mother !  I  tried  to  believe  myself  that  it  was  no 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  51 

more  than  a  mischance  of  the  post.  But  it  was 
not  that. 

We  could  do  nought  but  wait.  Ah,  but  the  folks 
at  home  in  Britain  know  all  too  well  those  sinister 
breaks  in  the  chains  of  letters  from  the  front! 
Such  a  break  may  mean  nothing  or  anything. 

For  us,  news  came  quickly.  But  it  was  not  a 
letter  from  John  that  came  to  us.  It  was  a  tele- 
gram from  the  war  office  and  it  told  us  no  more 
than  that  our  boy  was  wounded  and  in  hospital. 


CHAPTER  VI 

'"IT  TT  TOUNDED  and  in  hospital  I" 

Y  Y  That  might  have  meant  anything.  And 
for  a  whole  week  that  was  all  we  knew. 
To  hope  for  word  more  definite  until — and  unless 
— John  himself  could  send  us  a  message,  appeared 
to  be  hopeless.  Every  effort  we  made  ended  in 
failure.  And,  indeed,  at  such  a  time,  private  in- 
quiries could  not  well  be  made.  The  messages 
that  had  to  do  with  the  war  and  with  the  business 
of  the  armies  had  to  be  dealt  with  first. 

But  at  last,  after  a  week  in  which  his  mother 
and  I  almost  went  mad  with  anxiety,  there  came 
a  note  from  our  laddie  himself.  He  told  us  not 
to  fret — that  all  that  ailed  him  was  that  his  nose 
was  split  and  his  wrist  bashed  up  a  bit!  His 
mother  looked  at  me  and  I  at  her.  It  seemed  bad 
enough  to  us !  But  he  made  light  of  his  wounds 
— aye,  and  he  was  right !  When  I  thought  of  men 
I'd  seen  in  hospitals — men  with  wounds  so  fright- 
ful that  they  may  not  be  told  of — I  rejoiced  that 
John  had  fared  so  well. 

And  I  hoped,  too,  that  his  wounds  would  bring 
him  home  to  us — to  Blighty,  as  the  Tommies  were 

52 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  53 

beginning  to  call  Britain.  But  his  wounds  were 
not  serious  enough  for  that  and  so  soon  as  they 
were  healed,  he  went  back  to  the  trenches. 

' '  Don 't  worry  about  me, ' '  he  wrote  to  us.  *  *  Lots 
of  fellows  out  here  have  been  wounded  five  and 
six  times,  and  don't  think  anything  of  it.  I'll 
be  all  right  so  long  as  I  don't  get  knocked 
out." 

He  didn't  tell  us  then  that  it  was  the  bursting 
of  a  shell  that  gave  him  his  first  wounded  stripe. 
But  he  wrote  to  us  regularly  again,  and  there 
were  scarcely  any  days  in  which  a  letter  did  not 
come  either  to  me  or  to  his  mother.  When  one 
of  those  breaks  did  come  it  was  doubly  hard  to 
bear  now. 

For  now  we  knew  what  it  was  to  dread  the  sight 
of  a  telegraph  messenger.  Few  homes  in  Britain 
there  are  that  do  not  share  that  knowledge  now. 
It  is  by  telegraph,  from  the  war  office,  that  bad 
news  comes  first.  And  so,  with  the  memory  of 
that  first  telegram  that  we  had  had,  matters  were 
even  worse,  somehow,  than  they  had  been  before. 
For  me  the  days  and  nights  dragged  by  as  if  they 
would  never  pass. 

There  was  more  news  in  John's  letters  now. 
We  took  some  comfort  from  that.  I  remember 
one  in  which  he  told  his  mother  how  good  a  bed 
he  had  finally  made  for  himself  the  night  before. 
For  some  reason  he  was  without  quarters — either 
a  billet  or  a  dug-out.  He  had  to  skirmish  around, 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 


for  he  did  not  care  to  sleep  simply  in  Flanders 
mud.  But  at  last  he  found  two  handfuls  of  straw, 
and  with  them  made  his  couch. 

"I  got  a  good  two  hours'  sleep,"  he  wrote  to 
his  mother.  "And  I  was  perfectly  comfortable. 
I  can  tell  you  one  thing,  too,  Mother.  If  I  ever 
get  home  after  this  experience,  there'll  be  one  in 
the  house  who'll  never  grumble!  This  business 
puts  the  grumbling  out  of  your  head.  This  is 
where  the  men  are.  This  is  where  every  man 
ought  to  be." 

In  another  letter  he  told  us  that  nine  of  his  men 
had  been  killed. 

"We  buried  them  last  night,"  he  wrote,  "just 
as  the  sun  went  down.  It  was  the  first  funeral  I 
have  ever  attended.  It  was  most  impressive.  We 
carried  the  boys  to  one  huge  grave.  The  padre 
said  a  prayer,  and  we  lowered  the  boys  into  the 
ground,  and  we  all  sang  a  little  hymn:  'Peace, 
Perfect  Peace  !  '  Then  I  called  my  men  to  atten- 
tion again,  and  we  marched  straight  back  into  the 
trenches,  each  of  us,  I  dare  say,  wondering  who 
would  be  the  next." 

John  was  promoted  for  the  second  time  in 
Flanders.  He  was  a  captain,  having  got  his  step 
on  the  field  of  battle.  Promotion  came  swiftly  in 
those  days  to  those  who  proved  themselves  worthy. 
And  all  of  the  few  reports  that  came  to  us  of 
John  showed  us  that  he  was  a  good  officer.  His 
men  liked  him,  and  trusted  him,  and  would  follow 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  55 

him  anywhere.  And  little  more  than  that  can  be 
said  of  any  officer. 

While  Captain  John  Lauder  was  playing  his 
part  across  the  Channel,  I  was  still  trying  to  do 
what  I  could  at  home.  My  band  still  travelled  up 
and  down,  the  length  and  width  of  the  United 
Kingdom,  skirling  and  drumming  and  drawing 
men  by  the  score  to  the  recruiting  office. 

There  was  no  more  talk  now  of  a  short  war. 
We  knew  what  we  were  in  for  now. 

But  there  was  no  thought  or  talk  of  anything 
save  victory.  Let  the  war  go  on  as  long  as  it 
must — it  could  end  only  in  one  way.  We  had  been 
forced  into  the  fight — but  we  were  in,  and  we  were 
in  to  stay.  John,  writing  from  France,  was  no 
more  determined  than  those  at  home. 

It  was  not  very  long  before  there  came  again 
a  break  in  John's  letters.  We  were  used  to  the 
days — far  apart — that  brought  no  word.  Not 
until  the  second  day  and  the  third  day  passed 
without  a  word,  did  Mrs.  Lauder  and  I  confess 
our  terrors  and  our  anxiety  to  ourselves  and  one 
another.  This  time  our  suspense  was  compara- 
tively short-lived.  Word  came  that  John  was  in 
hospital  again — at  the  Duke  of  Westminster's 
hospital  at  Le  Toquet,  in  France.  This  time  he 
was  not  wounded;  he  was  suffering  from  dysen- 
tery, fever  and — a  nervous  breakdown.  That 
was  what  staggered  his  mother  and  me.  A  nerv- 
ous breakdown !  We  could  not  reconcile  the  John 


56  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

we  knew  with  the  idea  that  the  words  conveyed  to 
us.  He  had  been  high  strung,  to  be  sure,  and  sen- 
sitive. But  never  had  he  been  the  sort  of  boy  of 
whom  to  expect  a  breakdown  so  severe  as  this 
must  be  if  they  had  sent  him  to  the  hospital. 

We  could  only  wait  to  hear  from  him,  however. 
And  it  was  several  weeks  before  he  was  strong 
enough  to  be  able  to  write  to  us.  There  was  no 
hint  of  discouragement  in  what  he  wrote  then. 
On  the  contrary,  he  kept  on  trying  to  reassure  us, 
and  if  he  ever  grew  downhearted,  he  made  it  his 
business  to  see  that  we  did  not  suspect  it.  Here 
is  one  of  his  letters — like  most  of  them  it  was  not 
about  himself. 

"I  had  a  sad  experience  yesterday,"  he  wrote 
to  me.  "It  was  the  first  day  I  was  able  to  be  out 
of  bed,  and  I  went  over  to  a  piano  in  a  cor- 
ner against  the  wall,  sat  down,  and  began 
playing  very  softly,  more  to  myself  than  any- 
thing else. 

"One  of  the  nurses  came  to  me,  and  said  a  Cap- 
tain Webster,  of  the  Gordon  Highlanders,  who 
lay  on  a  bed  in  the  same  ward,  wanted  to  speak 
to  me.  She  said  he  had  asked  who  was  playing, 
and  she  had  told  him  Captain  Lauder — Harry 
Lauder 's  son.  'Oh,'  he  said,  'I  know  Harry 
Lauder  very  well.  Ask  Captain  Lauder  to  come 
here?' 

"This  man  had  gone  through  ten  operations  in 
less  than  a  week.  I  thought  perhaps  my  playing 


"  '  Carry  On !  '  were  the  last  words  of  my  boy,  Captain 

John  Lauder,  to  his  men,  but  he  would  mean 

them  for  me,  too." 


57 


had  disturbed  him,  but  when  I  went  to  his  bed- 
side, he  grasped  my  hand,  pressed  it  with  what 
little  strength  he  had  left,  and  thanked  me.  He 
asked  me  if  I  could  play  a  hymn.  He  said  he 
would  like  to  hear  'Lead,  Kindly  Light.' 

"So  I  went  back  to  the  piano  and  played  it  as 
softly  and  as  gently  as  I  could.  It  was  his  last 
request.  He  died  an  hour  later.  I  was  very  glad 
I  was  able  to  soothe  his  last  moments  a  little.  I 
am  very  glad  now  I  learned  the  hymn  at  Sunday 
School  as  a  boy." 

Soon  after  we  received  that  letter  there  came 
what  we  could  not  but  think  great  news.  John 
was  ordered  home !  He  was  invalided,  to  be  sure, 
and  I  warned  his  mother  that  she  must  be  pre- 
pared for  a  shock  when  she  saw  him.  But  no  mat- 
ter how  ill  he  was,  we  would  have  our  lad  with  us 
for  a  space.  And  for  that  much  British  fathers 
and  mothers  had  learned  to  be  grateful. 

I  had  warned  John's  mother,  but  it  was  I  who 
was  shocked  when  I  saw  him  first  on  the  day  he 
came  back  to  our  wee  hoose  at  Dunoon.  His 
cheeks  were  sunken,  his  eyes  very  bright,  as  a 
man's  are  who  has  a  fever.  He  was  weak  and 
thin,  and  there  was  no  blood  in  his  cheeks.  It  was 
a  sight  to  wring  one's  heart  to  see  the  laddie  so 
brought  down — him  who  had  looked  so  braw  and 
strong  the  last  time  we  had  seen  him. 

That  had  been  when  he  was  setting  out  for  the 
wars,  you  ken !  And  now  he  was  back,  sae  thin  and 


58  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

weak  and  pitiful  as  I  had  not  seen  him  since  he 
had  been  a  bairn  in  his  mother's  arms. 

Aweel,  it  was  for  us,  his  mother  and  I,  and  all 
the  folks  at  home,  to  mend  him,  and  make  him 
strong  again.  So  he  told  us,  for  he  had  but  one 
thing  on  his  mind — to  get  back  to  his  men. 

"They'll  be  needing  me,  out  there,"  he  said. 
"They're  needing  men.  I  must  go  back  so  soon 
as  I  can.  Every  man  is  needed  there." 

"You'll  be  needing  your  strength  back  before 
you  can  be  going  back,  son, ' '  I  told  him.  ' '  If  you 
fash  and  fret  it  will  take  you  but  so  much  the 
longer  to  get  back." 

He  knew  that.  But  he  knew  things  I  could  not 
know,  because  I  had  not  seen  them.  He  had  seen 
things  that  he  saw  over  and  over  again  when  he 
tried  to  sleep.  His  nerves  were  shattered  utterly. 
It  grieved  me  sore  not  to  spend  all  my  time  with 
him  but  he  would  not  hear  of  it.  He  drove  me 
back  to  my  work. 

"You  must  work  on,  Dad,  like  every  other 
Briton,"  he  said.  "Think  of  the  part  you're 
playing.  Why  you're  more  use  than  any  of  us 
out  there — you're  worth  a  brigade!" 

So  I  left  him  on  the  Clyde,  and  went  on  about 
my  work.  But  I  went  back  to  Dunoon  as  often  as 
I  could,  as  I  got  a  day  or  a  night  to  make  the 
journey.  At  first  there  was  small  change  of  prog- 
ress. John  would  come  downstairs  about  the 
middle  of  the  day,  moving  slowly  and  painfully. 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  59 

And  he  was  listless;  there  was  no  life  in  him;  no 
resiliency  or  spring. 

"How  did  you  rest,  son?"  I  would  ask  him. 

He  always  smiled  when  he  answered. 

"Oh,  fairly  well,"  he'd  tell  me.  "I  fought 
three  or  four  battles  though,  before  I  dropped  off 
to  sleep." 

He  had  come  to  the  right  place  to  be  cured, 
though,  and  his  mother  was  the  nurse  he  needed. 
It  was  quiet  in  the  hills  of  the  Clyde,  and  there 
was  rest  and  healing  in  the  heather  about  Dunoon. 
Soon  his  sleep  became  better  and  less  troubled  by 
dreams.  He  could  eat  more,  too,  and  they  saw  to 
it,  at  home,  that  he  ate  all  they  could  stuff  into 
him. 

So  it  was  a  surprisingly  short  time,  considering 
how  bad  he  had  looked  when  he  first  came  back 
to  Dunoon,  before  he  was  in  good  health  and 
spirits  again.  There  was  a  bonnie,  wee  lassie 
who  was  to  become  Mrs.  John  Lauder  ere  so 
long — she  helped  our  boy,  too,  to  get  back  his 
strength. 

Soon  he  was  ordered  from  home.  For  a  time 
he  had  only  light  duties  with  the  Home  Eeserve. 
Then  he  went  to  school.  I  laughed  when  he  told 
me  he  had  been  ordered  to  school,  but  he  didna 
crack  a  smile. 

"You  needn't  be  laughing,"  he  said.  "It's  a 
bombing  school  I'm  going  to  now-a-days.  If 
you're  away  from  the  front  for  a  few  weeks,  you 


60  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

find  everything  changed  when  you  get  back. 
Bombing  is  going  to  be  important." 

John  did  so  well  in  the  bombing  school  that  he 
was  made  an  instructor  and  assigned,  for  a  while, 
to  teach  others.  But  he  was  impatient  to  be  back 
with  his  own  men,  and  they  were  clamoring  for 
him.  And  so,  on  September  16,  1916,  his  mother 
and  I  bade  him  good-by  again,  and  he  went  back 
to  France  and  the  men  his  heart  was  wrapped 
up  in. 

"Yon's  where  the  men  are,  Dad!"  he  said  to 
me,  just  before  he  started. 


CHAPTER 

JOHN'S  mother,  his  sweetheart  and  I  all  saw 
him  off  at  Glasgow.  The  fear  was  in  all  our 
hearts,  and  I  think  it  must  have  been  in  all 
our  eyes,  as  well — the  fear  that  every  father  and 
mother  and  sweetheart  in  Britain  shared  with  us 
in  these  days  whenever  they  saw  a  boy  off  for 
France  and  the  trenches.  Was  it  for  the  last 
time?  Were  we  seeing  him  now  so  strong  and 
hale  and  hearty,  only  to  have  to  go  the  rest  of  our 
lives  with  no  more  than  a  memory  of  him  to  keep  t 
Aweel,  we  could  not  be  telling  that !  We  could 
only  hope  and  pray!  And  we  had  learned  again 
to  pray,  long  since.  I  have  wondered,  often,  and 
Mrs.  Lauder  has  wondered  with  me,  what  the 
fathers  and  mothers  of  Britain  would  do  in  these 
black  days  without  prayer  to  guide  them  and  sus- 
tain them.  So  we  could  but  stand  there,  keeping 
back  our  tears  and  our  fears,  and  hoping  for  the 
best.  One  thing  was  sure;  we  might  not  let  the 
laddie  see  how  close  we  were  to  greeting.  It  was 
for  us  to  be  so  brave  as  God  would  let  us  be.  It 
was  hard  for  him.  He  was  no  boy,  you  ken,  going 
blindly  and  gayly  to  a  great  adventure;  he  had 
need  of  the  finest  courage  and  devotion  a  man 
could  muster  that  day. 

61 


62  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

For  he  knew  fully  now  what  it  was  that  he 
was  going  back  to.  He  knew  the  hell  the  Huns 
had  made  of  war,  which  had  been  bad  enough,  in 
all  conscience,  before  they  did  their  part  to  make 
it  worse.  And  he  was  high  strung.  He  could  live 
over,  and  I  make  no  doubt  he  did,  in  those  days 
after  he  had  his  orders  to  go  back,  every  grim  and 
dreadful  thing  that  was  waiting  for  him  out  there. 
He  had  been  through  it  all,  and  he  was  going 
back.  He  had  come  out  of  the  valley  of  the 
shadow,  and  now  he  was  to  ride  down  into  it 
again. 

And  it  was  with  a  smile  he  left  us!  I  shall 
never  forget  that.  His  thought  was  all  for  us 
whom  he  was  leaving  behind.  His  care  was  for 
us,  lest  we  should  worry  too  greatly  and  think 
too  much  of  him. 

"I'll  be  all  right,"  he  told  us.  "You're  not  to 
fret  about  me,  any  of  you.  A  man  does  take  his 
chances  out  there — but  they're  the  chances  every 
man  must  take  these  days,  if  he's  a  man  at  all. 
I'd  rather  be  taking  them  than  be  safe  at 
home." 

We  did  our  best  to  match  the  laddie's  spirit 
and  be  worthy  of  him.  But  it  was  cruelly  hard. 
We  had  lost  him  and  found  him  again,  and  now 
he  was  being  taken  from  us  for  the  second  time. 
It  was  harder,  much  harder,  to  see  him  go  this 
second  time  than  it  had  been  at  first,  and  it  had 
been  hard  enough  then,  and  bad  enough.  But 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  63 

there  was  nothing  else  for  it.    So  much  we  knew. 
It  was  a  thing  ordered  and  inevitable. 

And  it  was  not  many  days  before  we  had 
slipped  back  into  the  way  things  had  been  before 
John  was  invalided  home.  It  is  a  strange  thing 
about  life,  the  way  that  one  can  become  used  to 
things.  So  it  was  with  us.  Strange  things,  ter- 
rible things,  outrageous  things,  that,  in  time  of 
peace,  we  would  never  have  dared  so  much  as  to 
think  possible,  came  to  be  the  matters  of  every 
day  for  us.  It  was  so  with  John.  We  came  to 
think  of  it  as  natural  that  he  should  be  away  from 
us,  and  in  peril  of  his  life  every  minute  of  every 
hour.  It  was  not  easier  for  us.  Indeed,  it  was 
harder  than  it  had  been  before,  just  as  it  had 
been  harder  for  us  to  say  good-by  the  second 
time.  But  we  thought  less  often  of  the  strange- 
ness of  it.  We  were  really  growing  used  to  the 
war,  and  it  was  less  the  monstrous,  strange  thing 
than  it  had  been  in  our  daily  lives.  War  had 
become  our  daily  life  and  portion  in  Britain. 
All  who  were  not  slackers  were  doing  their  part 
— every  one.  Man  and  woman  and  child  were  in 
it,  making  sacrifices.  Those  happy  days  of  peace 
lay  far  behind  us,  and  we  had  lost  our  touch  with 
them  and  our  memory  of  them  was  growing  dim. 
We  were  all  in  it.  We  had  all  to  suffer  alike,  we 
were  all  in  the  same  boat,  we  mothers  and  fathers 
and  sweethearts  of  Britain.  And  so  it  was  easier 


64>  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

for  us  not  to  think  too  much  and  too  often  of  our 
own  griefs  and  cares  and  anxieties. 

John's  letters  began  to  come  again  in  a  steady 
stream.  He  was  as  careful  as  ever  about  writ- 
ing. There  was  scarcely  a  day  that  did  not  bring 
its  letter  to  one  of  the  three  of  us.  And  what 
bonnie,  brave  letters  they  were!  They  were  as 
cheerful  and  as  bright  as  his  first  letters  had 
been.  If  John  had  bad  hours  and  bad  days  out 
there  he  would  not  let  us  know  it.  He  told  us 
what  news  there  was,  and  he  was  always  cheerful 
and  bright  when  he  wrote.  He  let  no  hint  of 
discouragement  creep  into  anything  he  wrote  to 
us.  He  thought  of  others  first,  always  and  all  the 
time;  of  his  men,  and  of  us  at  home.  He  was 
quite  cured  and  well,  he  told  us,  and  going  back 
had  done  him  good  instead  of  harm.  He  wrote 
to  us  that  he  felt  as  if  he  had  come  home.  He 
felt,  you  ken,  that  it  was  there,  in  France  and 
in  the  trenches,  that  men  should  feel  at  home  in 
those  days,  and  not  safe  in  Britain  by  their  ain 
firesides. 

It  was  not  easy  for  me  to  be  cheerful  and  com- 
fortable about  him,  though.  I  had  my  work  to 
do.  I  tried  to  do  it  as  well  as  I  could,  for  I  knew 
that  that  would  please  him.  My  band  still  went 
up  and  down  the  country,  getting  recruits,  and 
I  was  speaking,  too,  and  urging  men  myself  to 
go  out  and  join  the  lads  who  were  fighting  and 
dying  for  them  in  France.  They  told  me  I  was 


65 


doing  good  work ;  that  I  was  a  great  force  in  the 
war.  And  I  did,  indeed,  get  many  a  word  and 
many  a  handshake  from  men  who  told  me  I  had 
induced  them  to  enlist. 

"I'm  glad  I  heard  you,  Harry,"  man  after 
man  said  to  me.  "You  showed  me  what  I  should 
be  doing  and  I've  been  easier  in  my  mind  ever 
since  I  put  on  the  khaki!" 

I  knew  they'd  never  regret  it,  no  matter  what 
came  to  them.  No  man  will,  that 's  done  his  duty. 
It's  the  slackers  who  couldn't  or  wouldn't  see 
their  duty  men  should  feel  sorry  for!  It's  not 
the  lads  who  gave  everything  and  made  the  final 
sacrifice. 

It  was  hard  for  me  to  go  on  with  my  work  of 
making  folks  laugh.  It  had  been  growing  harder 
steadily  ever  since  I  had  come  home  from  Amer- 
ica and  that  long  voyage  of  mine  to  Australia 
and  had  seen  what  war  was  and  what  it  was  doing 
to  Britain.  But  I  carried  on,  and  did  the  best  I 
could. 

That  winter  I  was  in  the  big  revue  at  the 
Shaftesbury  Theatre,  in  London,  that  was  called 
"Three  Cheers."  It  was  one  of  the  gay  shows 
that  London  liked  because  it  gave  some  relief 
from  the  war  and  made  the  Zeppelin  raids  that 
the  Huns  were  beginning  to  make  so  often  now  a 
little  easier  to  bear.  And  it  was  a  great  place  for 
the  men  who  were  back  from  France.  It  was 
partly  because  of  them  that  I  could  go  on  as  I 


66  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

did.  We  owed  them  all  we  could  give  them.  And 
when  they  came  back  from  the  mud  and  the  grime 
and  the  dreariness  of  the  trenches,  they  needed 
something  to  cheer  them  up — needed  the  sort  of 
production  we  gave  them.  A  man  who  has  two 
days'  leave  in  London  does  not  want  to  see  a 
serious  play  or  a  problem  drama,  as  a  rule.  He 
wants  something  light,  with  lots  of  pretty  girls 
and  jolly  tunes  and  people  to  make  him  laugh. 
And  we  gave  him  that.  The  house  was  full  of 
officers  and  men,  night  after  night. 

Soon  word  came  from  John  that  he  was  to  have 
leave,  just  after  Christmas,  that  would  bring  him 
home  for  the  New  Year's  holidays.  His  mother 
went  home  to  make  things  ready,  for  John  was 
to  be  married  when  he  got  his  leave.  I  had  my 
plans  all  made.  I  meant  to  build  a  wee  hoose  for 
the  two  of  them,  near  our  own  hoose  at  Dunoon, 
so  that  we  might  be  all  together,  even  though  my 
laddie  was  in  a  home  of  his  own.  And  I  counted 
the  hours  and  the  days  against  the  time  when 
John  would  be  home  again. 

While  we  were  playing  at  the  Shaftesbury  I 
lived  at  an  hotel  in  Southampton  Row  called  the 
Bonnington.  But  it  was  lonely  for  me  there.  On 
New  Year's  Eve — it  fell  on  a  Sunday — Tom  Val- 
lance,  my  brother-in-law,  asked  me  to  tea  with 
him  and  his  family  in  Clapham,  where  he  lived. 
That  is  a  pleasant  place,  a  suburb  of  London  on 
the  southwest,  and  I  was  glad  to  go.  And  so  I 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  67 

drove  out  with  a  friend  of  mine,  in  a  taxicab,  and 
was  glad  to  get  out  of  the  crowded  part  of  the  city 
for  a  time. 

I  did  not  feel  right  that  day.  Holiday  times 
were  bad,  hard  times  for  me  then.  "We  had  always 
made  so  much  of  Christmas,  and  here  was  the 
third  Christmas  that  our  boy  had  been  away. 
And  so  I  was  depressed.  And  then,  there  had 
been  no  word  for  me  from  John  for  a  day  or  two. 
I  was  not  worried,  for  I  thought  it  likely  that  his 
mother  or  his  sweetheart  had  heard,  and  had  not 
time  yet  to  let  me  know.  But,  whatever  the  rea- 
son, I  was  depressed  and  blue,  and  I  could  not 
enter  into  the  festive  spirit  that  folk  were  trying 
to  keep  alive  despite  the  war. 

I  must  have  been  poor  company  during  that 
ride  to  Clapham  in  the  taxicab.  We  scarcely  ex- 
changed a  word,  my  friend  and  I.  I  did  not  feel 
like  talking,  and  he  respected  my  mood,  and  kept 
quiet  himself.  I  felt,  at  last,  that  I  ought  to 
apologize  to  him. 

"I  don't  know  what's  the  matter  with  me,"  I 
told  him.  "I  simply  don't  want  to  talk.  I  feel 
sad  and  lonely.  I  wonder  if  my  boy  is  all  right?" 

' '  Of  course  he  is ! "  my  friend  told  me.  '  *  Cheer 
up,  Harry.  This  is  a  time  when  no  news  is  good 
news.  If  anything  were  wrong  with  him  they'd 
let  you  know." 

Well,  I  knew  that,  too.  And  I  tried  to  cheer  up, 
and  feel  better,  so  that  I  would  not  spoil  the 


68  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

pleasure  of  the  others  at  Tom  Vallance's  house. 
I  tried  to  picture  John  as  I  thought  he  must  be — 
well,  and  happy,  and  smiling  the  old,  familiar 
boyish  smile  I  knew  so  well.  I  had  sent  him  a 
box  of  cigars  only  a  few  days  before,  and  he 
would  be  handing  it  around  among  his  fellow 
officers.  I  knew  that !  But  it  was  no  use.  I  could 
think  of  John,  but  it  was  only  with  sorrow  and 
longing.  And  I  wondered  if  this  same  time  in  a 
year  would  see  him  still  out  there,  in  the  trenches. 
Would  this  war  ever  end  I  And  so  the  shadows 
still  hung  about  me  when  we  reached  Tom's 
house. 

They  made  me  very  welcome,  did  Tom  and  all 
his  family.  They  tried  to  cheer  me,  and  Tom  did 
all  he  could  to  make  me  feel  better,  and  to  reas- 
sure me.  But  I  was  still  depressed  when  we  left 
the  house  and  began  the  drive  back  to  London. 

"It's  the  holiday — I'm  out  of  gear  with  that, 
I'm  thinking,"  I  told  my  friend. 

He  was  going  to  join  two  other  friends,  and, 
with  them,  to  see  the  New  Year  in  in  an  old 
fashioned  way,  and  he  wanted  me  to  join  them. 
But  I  did  not  feel  up  to  it ;  I  was  not  in  the  mood 
for  anything  of  the  sort. 

"No,  no,  I'll  go  home  and  turn  in,"  I  told  him. 
"I'm  too  dull  to-night  to  be  good  company." 

He  hoped,  as  we  all  did,  that  this  New  Year 
that  was  coming  would  bring  victory  and  peace. 
Peace  could  not  come  without  victory;  we  were 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  69 

all  agreed  on  that.  But  we  all  hoped  that  the 
New  Year  would  bring  both — the  new  year  of 
1917.  And  so  I  left  him  at  the  corner  of  South- 
hampton  Row,  and  went  back  to  my  hotel  alone. 
It  was  about  midnight,  a  little  before,  I  think, 
when  I  got  in,  and  one  of  the  porters  had  a  mes- 
sage for  me. 

"Sir  Thomas  Lipton  rang  you  up,"  he  said, 
4 'and  wants  you  to  speak  with  him  when  you 
come  in." 

I  rang  him  up  at  home  directly. 

" Happy  New  Year,  when  it  comes,  Harry!"  he 
said.  He  spoke  in  the  same  bluff,  hearty  way  he 
always  did.  He  fairly  shouted  in  my  ear.  ' '  When 
did  you  hear  from  the  boy?  Are  you  and  Mrs. 
Lauder  well?" 

"Aye,  fine,"  I  told  him.  And  I  told  him  my 
last  news  of  John. 

"Splendid!"  he  said.  "Well,  it  was  just  to 
talk  to  you  a  minute  that  I  rang  you  up,  Harry. 
Good-night — Happy  New  Year  again." 

I  went  to  bed  then.  But  I  did  not  go  to  sleep 
for  a  long  time.  It  was  New  Year's,  and  I  lay 
thinking  of  my  boy,  and  wondering  what  this 
year  would  bring  him.  It  was  early  in  the  morn- 
ing before  I  slept.  And  it  seemed  to  me  that  I 
had  scarce  been  asleep  at  all  when  there  came  a 
pounding  at  the  door,  loud  enough  to  rouse  the 
heaviest  sleeper  there  ever  was. 

My   heart   almost   stopped.     There   must   be 


70  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

something  serious  indeed  for  them  to  be  rousing 
me  so  early.  I  rushed  to  the  door,  and  there  was 
a  porter,  holding  out  a  telegram.  I  took  it  and 
tore  it  open.  And  I  knew  why  I  had  felt  as  I  had 
the  day  before.  I  shall  never  forget  what  I  read : 

"  Captain  John  Lauder  killed  in  action,  Decem- 
ber 28.  Official.  War  Office." 

It  had  gone  to  Mrs.  Lauder  at  Dunoon  first, 
and  she  had  sent  it  on  to  me.  That  was  all  it 
said.  I  knew  nothing  of  how  my  boy  had  died, 
or  where — save  that  it  was  for  his  country. 

But  later  I  learned  that  when  Sir  Thomas 
Lipton  had  rung  me  up  he  had  intended  to  con- 
dole with  me.  He  had  heard  on  Saturday  of  my 
boy's  death.  But  when  he  spoke  to  me,  and 
understood  at  once,  from  the  tone  of  my  voice, 
that  I  did  not  know,  he  had  not  been  able  to  go 
on.  His  heart  was  too  tender  to  make  it  possible 
for  him  to  be  the  one  to  give  me  that  blow — the 
heaviest  that  ever  befell  me. 


CHAPTER  VIH 

IT  was  on  Monday  morning,  January  the  first, 
1917,  that  I  learned  of  my  boy's  death.  And 
he  had  been  killed  the  Thursday  before !  He 
had  been  dead  four  days  before  I  knew  it!  And 
yet — I  had  known.  Let  no  one  ever  tell  me  again 
that  there  is  nothing  in  presentiment.  Why  else 
had  I  been  so  sad  and  uneasy  in  my  mind?  Why 
else,  all  through  that  Sunday,  had  it  been  so  im- 
possible for  me  to  take  comfort  in  what  was  said 
to  cheer  me?  Some  warning  had  come  to  me, 
some  sense  that  all  was  not  well. 

Eealization  came  to  me  slowly.  I  sat  and 
stared  at  that  slip  of  paper,  that  had  come  to  me 
like  the  breath  of  doom.  Dead !  Dead  these  four 
days!  I  was  never  to  see  the  light  of  his  eyes 
again.  I  was  never  to  hear  that  laugh  of  his.  I 
had  looked  on  my  boy  for  the  last  time.  Could  it 
be  true  ?  Ah,  I  knew  it  was !  And  it  was  for  this 
moment  that  I  had  been  waiting,  that  we  had  all 
been  waiting,  ever  since  we  had  sent  John  away 
to  fight  for  his  country  and  do  his  part.  I  think 
we  had  all  felt  that  it  must  come.  We  had  all 
known  that  it  was  too  much  to  hope  that  he  should 
be  one  of  those  to  be  spared. 

71 


72  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

The  black  despair  that  had  been  hovering  over 
me  for  hours  closed  down  now  and  enveloped  all 
my  senses.  Everything  was  unreal.  For  a  time 
I  was  quite  numb.  But  then,  as  I  began  to  realize 
and  to  visualize  what  it  was  to  mean  in  my  life 
that  my  boy  was  dead  there  came  a  great  pain. 
The  iron  of  realization  slowly  seared  every  word 
of  that  curt  telegram  upon  my  heart.  I  said  it 
to  myself,  over  and  over  again.  And  I  whispered 
to  myself,  as  my  thoughts  took  form,  over  and 
over,  the  one  terrible  word:  "Dead!" 

I  felt  that  for  me  everything  had  come  to  an 
end  with  the  reading  of  that  dire  message.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  for  me  the  board  of  life  was 
black  and  blank.  For  me  there  was  no  past  and 
there  could  be  no  future.  Everything  had  been 
swept  away,  erased,  by  one  sweep  of  the  hand 
of  a  cruel  fate.  Oh,  there  was  a  past,  though! 
And  it  was  in  that  past  that  I  began  to  delve.  It 
was  made  up  of  every  memory  I  had  of  my  boy. 
I  fell  at  once  to  remembering  him.  I  clutched  at 
every  memory,  as  if  I  must  grasp  them  and  make 
sure  of  them,  lest  they  be  taken  from  me  as  well 
as  the  hope  of  seeing  him  again  that  the  telegram 
had  forever  snatched  away,/ 

I  would  have  been  destitute  indeed  then.  It 
was  as  if  I  must  fix  in  my  mind  the  way  he  had 
been  wont  to  look,  and  recall  to  my  ears  every 
tone  of  his  voice,  every  trick  of  his  speech.  There 
was  something  left  of  him  that  I  must  keep,  I 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  73 

knew,  even  then,  at  all  costs,  if  I  was  to  be  able 
to  bear  his  loss  at  all. 

There  was  a  vision  of  him  before  my  eyes.  My 
bonnie  Highland  laddie,  brave  and  strong  in  his 
kilt  and  the  uniform  of  his  country,  going  out  to 
his  death  with  a  smile  on  his  face.  And  there  was 
another  vision  that  came  up  now,  unbidden.  It 
was  a  vision  of  him  lying  stark  and  cold  upon  the 
battlefield,  the  mud  on  his  uniform.  And  when  I 
saw  that  vision  I  was  like  a  man  gone  mad 
and  possessed  of  devils  who  had  stolen  away  his 
faculties.  I  cursed  war  as  I  saw  that  vision,  and 
the  men  who  caused  war.  And  when  I  thought  of 
the  Germans  who  had  killed  my  boy  a  terrible  and 
savage  hatred  swept  me,  and  I  longed  to  go  out 
there  and  kill  with  my  bare  hands  until  I  had 
avenged  him  or  they  had  killed  me  too. 

But  then  I  was  a  little  softened.  I  thought  of 
his  mother  back  in  our  wee  hoose  at  Dunoon. 
And  the  thought  of  her,  bereft  even  as  I  was,  sor- 
rowing, even  as  I  was,  and  lost  in  her  frightful 
loneliness,  was  pitiful,  so  that  I  had  but  the  one 
desire  and  wish — to  go  to  her,  and  join  my  tears 
with  hers,  that  we  who  were  left  alone  to  bear  our 
grief  might  bear  it  together  and  give  one  to  the 
other  such  comfort  as  there  might  be  in  life  for 
us.  And  so  I  fell  upon  my  knees  and  prayed, 
there  in  my  lonely  room  in  the  hotel.  I  prayed  to 
God  that  he  might  give  us  both,  John's  mother 
and  myself,  strength  to  bear  the  blow  that  had 


74  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

been  dealt  us  and  to  endure  the  sacrifice  that  He 
and  our  country  had  demanded  of  us. 

My  friends  came  to  me.  They  came  rushing  to 
me.  Never  did  man  have  better  friends,  and 
kindlier  friends  than  mine  proved  themselves  to 
me  on  that  day  of  sorrow^  They  did  all  that  good 
men  and  women  could  do.  But  there  was  no  help 
for  me  in  the  ministration  of  friends.  I  was 
beyond  the  power  of  human  words  to  comfort  or 
solace.  I  was  glad  of  their  kindness,  and  the 
memory  of  it  now  is  a  precious  one,  and  one  I 
would  not  be  without.  But  at  such  a  time  I  could 
not  gain  from  them  what  they  were  eager  to  give 
me.  I  could  only  bow  my  head  and  pray  for 
strength. 

That  night,  that  New  Year's  night  that  I  shall 
never  forget,  no  matter  how  long  God  may  let  me 
live,  I  went  north.  I  took  train  from  London  to 
Glasgow,  and  the  next  day  I  came  to  our  wee 
hoose — a  sad,  lonely  wee  hoose  it  had  become 
now! — on  the  Clyde  at  Dunoon,  and  was  with 
John's  mother.  It  was  the  place  for  me.  It  was 
there  that  I  wanted  to  be,  and  it  was  with  her, 
who  must  hereafter  be  all  the  world  to  me.  And 
I  was  eager  to  be  with  her,  too,  who  had  given 
John  to  me.  Sore  as  my  grief  was,  stricken  as  I 
was,  I  could  comfort  her  as  no  one  else  could  hope 
to  do,  and  she  could  do  as  much  for  me.  We  be- 
longed together. 

I  can  scarce  remember,  even  for  myself,  what 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  75 

happened  there  at  Dunoon.  I  cannot  tell  you 
what  I  said  or  what  I  did,  or  what  words  and  what 
thoughts  passed  between  John's  mother  and 
myself.  But  there  are  some  things  that  I  do  know 
and  that  I  will  tell  you. 

Almighty  God,  to  whom  we  prayed,  was  kind, 
and  He  was  pitiful  and  merciful.  For  presently 
He  brought  us  both  a  sort  of  sad  composure. 
Presently  He  assuaged  our  grief  a  little,  and  gave 
us  the  strength  that  we  must  have  to  meet  the 
needs  of  life  and  the  thought  of  going  on  in  a 
world  that  was  darkened  by  the  loss  of  the  boy  in 
whom  all  our  thoughts  and  all  our  hopes  had  been 
centred.  I  thanked  God  then,  and  I  thank  God 
now,  that  I  have  never  denied  Him  nor  taken  His 
name  in  vain. 

For  God  gave  me  great  thoughts  about  my  boy 
and  about  his  death.  Slowly,  gradually,  He  made 
me  to  see  things  in  their  true  light,  and  He  took 
away  the  sharp  agony  of  my  first  grief  and  sor- 
row, and  gave  me  a  sort  of  peace. 

John  died  in  the  most  glorious  cause,  and  he 
died  the  most  glorious  death,  it  may  be  given  to 
a  man  to  die.  He  died  for  humanity.  He  died  for 
liberty,  and  that  this  world  in  which  life  must  go 
on,  no  matter  how  many  die,  may  be  a  better 
world  to  live  in.  He  died  in  a  struggle  against 
the  blackest  force  and  the  direst  threat  that  has 
appeared  against  liberty  and  humanity  within  the 
memory  of  man.  And  were  he  alive  now,  and 


76  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

were  he  called  again  to-day  to  go  out  for  the  same 
cause,  knowing  that  he  must  meet  death — as  he 
did  meet  it — he  would  go  as  smilingly  and  as  will- 
ingly as  he  went  then.  He  would  go  as  a  British 
soldier  and  a  British  gentleman,  to  fight  and  die 
for  his  King  and  his  country.  And  I  would  bid 
him  go. 

I  have  lived  through  much  since  his  death. 
They  have  not  let  me  take  a  rifle  or  a  sword  and 
go  into  the  trenches  to  avenge  him.  .  .  .  But 
of  that  I  shall  tell  you  later. 

Ah,  it  was  not  at  once  that  I  felt  so!  In  my 
heart,  in  those  early  days  of  grief  and  sorrow, 
there  was  rebellion,  often  and  often.  There  were 
moments  when  in  my  anguish  I  cried  out,  aloud : 
"Why?  Why?  Why  did  they  have  to  take  John, 
my  boy — my  only  child?" 

But  God  came  to  me,  and  slowly  His  peace 
entered  my  soul.  And  He  made  me  see,  as  in  a 
vision,  that  some  things  that  I  had  said  and  that 
I  had  believed,  were  not  so.  He  made  me  know, 
and  I  learned,  straight  from  Him,  that  our  boy 
had  not  been  taken  from  us  forever  as  I  had  raid 
to  myself  so  often  since  that  telegram  had 
come. 

He  is  gone  from  this  life,  but  he  is  waiting  for 
us  beyond  this  life.  He  is  waiting  beyond  this 
life  and  this  world  of  wicked  war  and  wanton 
cruelty  and  slaughter.  And  we  shall  come,  some 
day,  his  mother  and  I,  to  the  place  where  he  is 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  77 

waiting  for  us,  and  we  shall  all  be  as  happy  there 
as  we  were  on  this  earth  in  the  happy  days  before 
the  war. 

My  eyes  will  rest  again  upon  his  face.  I  will 
hear  his  fresh  young  voice  again  as  he  sees  me 
and  cries  out  his  greeting.  I  know  what  he  will 
say.  He  will  spy  me,  and  his  voice  will  ring  out 
as  it  used  to  do.  " Hello,  Dad!"  he  will  call,  as 
he  sees  me.  And  I  will  feel  the  grip  of  his  young, 
strong  arms  about  me,  just  as  in  the  happy  days 
before  that  day  that  is  of  all  the  days  of  my  life 
the  most  terrible  and  the  most  hateful  in  my 
memory — the  day  when  they  told  me  that  he  had 
been  killed. 

That  is  my  belief.  That  is  the  comfort  that  God 
has  given  me  in  my  grief  and  my  sorrow.  There 
is  a  God.  Ah,  yes,  there  is  a  God !  Times  there 
are,  I  know,  when  some  of  those  who  look  upon 
the  horrid  slaughter  of  this  war,  that  is  going  on, 
hour  by  hour,  feel  that  their  faith  is  being  shaken 
by  doubts.  They  think  of  the  sacrifices,  of  the 
blood  that  is  being  poured  out,  of  the  sufferings 
of  women  and  children.  And  they  see  the  cause 
that  is  wrong  and  foul  prospering,  for  a  little 
time,  and  they  cannot  understand. 

"If  there  is  a  God,"  they  whisper  to  them- 
selves, "why  does  he  permit  a  thing  so  wicked  to 
go  on!" 

But  there  is  a  God — there  is !  I  have  seen  the 
stark  horror  of  war.  I  know,  as  none  can  know 


78  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

until  he  has  seen  it  at  close  quarters,  what  a  thing 
war  is  as  it  is  fought  to-day.  And  I  believe  as  I 
do  believe,  and  as  I  shall  believe  until  the  end, 
because  I  know  God's  comfort  and  His  grace.  I 
know  that  my  boy  is  surely  waiting  for  me.  In 
America,  now,  there  are  mothers  and  fathers  by 
the  scores  of  thousands  who  have  bidden  their 
sons  good-by;  who  water  their  letters  from 
France  with  their  tears — who  turn  white  at  the 
sight  of  a  telegram  and  tremble  at  the  sudden 
clamor  of  a  telephone.  Ah,  I  know — I  know!  I 
suffered  as  they  are  suffering!  And  I  have  this 
to  tell  them  and  to  beg  them.  They  must  believe 
as  I  believe — then  shall  they  find  the  peace  and 
the  comfort  that  I  have  found. 

So  it  was  that  there,  on  the  Clyde,  John's 
mother  and  I  came  out  of  the  blackness  of  our 
first  grief.  We  began  to  be  able  to  talk  to  one 
another.  And  every  day  we  talked  of  John.  We 
have  never  ceased  to  do  that,  his  mother  and  I. 
We  never  shall.  We  may  not  have  him  with  us 
bodily,  but  his  spirit  is  never  absent.  And  each 
day  we  remember  some  new  thing  about  him  that 
one  of  us  can  call  to  the  other's  mind.  And  it  is 
as  if,  when  we  do  that,  we  bring  back  some  part 
of  him  out  of  the  void. 

Little,  trifling  memories  of  when  he  was  a  baby, 
and  when  he  was  a  boy,  growing  up !  And  other 
memories,  of  later  days.  Often  and  often  it  was 
the  days  that  were  furthest  away  that  we  remem- 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  79 

bered  best  of  all,  and  things  connected  with  those 
days. 

But  I  had  small  wish  to  see  others.  John's 
mother  was  enough  for  me.  She  and  the  peace 
that  was  coming  to  me  on  the  Clyde.  I  could  not 
bear  to  think  of  London.  I  had  no  plans  to  make. 
All  that  was  over.  All  that  part  of  my  life,  I 
thought,  had  ended  with  the  news  of  my  boy's 
death.  I  wanted  no  more  than  to  stay  at  home 
on  the  Clyde  and  think  of  him.  My  wife  and  I 
did  not  even  talk  about  the  future.  And  no  thing 
was  further  from  all  my  thoughts  than  that  I 
should  ever  step  upon  a  stage  again. 

What !  Go  out  before  an  audience  and  seek  to 
make  it  laugh?  Sing  my  songs  when  my  heart 
was  broken?  I  did  not  decide  not  to  do  it.  I  did 
not  so  much  as  think  of  it  as  a  thing  I  had  to 
decide  about. 


CHAPTER  IX 

A  "ID  then  one  thing  and  another  brought  the 
thought  into  my  mind,  so  that  I  had  to  face 
it  and  tell  people  how  I  felt  about  it.  There 
were  neighbors,  wanting  to  know  when  I  would 
be  about  my  work  again.  That  it  was  that  first 
made  me  understand  that  others  did  not  feel  as 
I  was  feeling. 

"They're  thinking  I'll  be  going  back  to  work 
again,"  I  told  John's  mother.  "I  cannaM" 

She  felt  as  I  did.  We  could  not  see,  either  one 
of  us,  in  our  grief,  how  anyone  could  think  that 
I  could  begin  again  where  I  had  left  off. 

"I  cannaM  I  will  not  try!"  I  told  her,  again 
and  again.  "How  can  I  tak  up  again  with  that 
old  mummery1?  How  can  I  laugh  when  my  heart 
is  breaking,  and  make  others  smile  when  the  tears 
are  in  my  eyes?" 

And  she  thought  as  I  did,  that  I  could  not,  and 
that  no  one  should  be  asking  me.  The  war  had 
taken  much  of  what  I  had  earned,  in  one  way  or 
another.  I  was  not  so  rich  as  I  had  been,  but 
there  was  enough.  There  was  no  need  for  me  to 
go  back  to  work,  so  far  as  our  living  was  con- 
cerned. And  so  it  seemed  to  be  settled  between 
us.  Planning  we  left  for  the  future.  It  was  no 

80 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  81 

time  for  us  to  be  making  plans.  It  mattered  little 
enough  to  us  what  might  be  in  store  for  us.  We 
could  take  things  as  they  might  come. 

So  we  bided  quiet  in  our  home,  and  talked  of 
John.  And  from  every  part  of  the  earth  and 
from  people  in  all  walks  and  conditions  of  life 
there  began  to  pour  in  upon  us  letters  and  tele- 
grams of  sympathy  and  sorrow.  I  think  there 
were  four  thousand  kindly  folk  who  remembered 
us  in  our  sorrow,  and  let  us  know  that  they  could 
think  of  us  in  spite  of  all  the  other  care  and 
trouble  that  filled  the  world  in  those  days.  Many 
celebrated  names  were  signed  to  those  letters  and 
telegrams,  and  there  were  many,  too,  from  simple 
folk  whose  very  names  I  did  not  know,  who  told 
me  that  I  had  given  them  cheer  and  courage 
from  the  stage,  and  so  they  felt  that  they 
were  friends  of  mine,  and  must  let  me  know  that 
they  were  sorry  for  the  blow  that  had  be- 
fallen me. 

Then  it  came  out  that  I  meant  to  leave  the  stage. 
They  sent  word  from  London,  at  last,  to  ask  when 
they  might  look  for  me  to  be  back  at  the  Shaftes- 
bury  Theatre.  And  when  they  found  what  it  was 
in  my  mind  to  do  all  my  friends  began  to  plead 
with  me  and  argue  with  me.  They  said  it  was 
my  duty  to  myself  to  go  back. 

"You're  too  young  a  man  to  retire,  Harry,'* 
they  said.  "What  would  you  do?  How  could  you 
pass  away  your  time  if  you  had  no  work  to  do? 


82  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

Men  who  retire  at  your  age  are  always  sorry. 
They  wither  away  and  die  of  dry  rot." 

*  *  There  '11  be  plenty  for  me  to  be  doing, ' '  I  told 
them.  ''I'll  not  be  idle." 

But  still  they  argued.  I  was  not  greatly  moved. 
They  were  thinking  of  me,  and  their  arguments 
appealed  to  my  selfish  interests  and  needs,  and 
just  then  I  was  not  thinking  very  much  about 
myself. 

And  then  another  sort  of  argument  came  to  me. 
People  wrote  to  me,  men  and  women,  who,  like 
me,  had  lost  their  sons.  Their  letters  brought  the 
tears  to  my  eyes  anew.  They  were  tender  letters, 
and  beautiful  letters,  most  of  them,  and  letters  to 
make  proud  and  glad,  as  well  as  sad,  the  heart  of 
the  man  to  whom  they  were  written.  I  will  not 
copy  those  letters  down  here,  for  they  were  writ- 
ten for  my  eyes,  and  for  no  others.  But  I  can 
tell  you  the  message  that  they  all  bore. 

"Don't  desert  us  now,  Harry!"  It  was  so  that 
they  put  it,  one  after  another,  in  those  letters. 
''Ah,  Harry — there  is  so  much  woe  and  grief  and 
pain  in  the  world  that  you,  who  can,  must  do  all 
that  is  in  your  power  to  make  them  easier  to 
bear !  There  are  few  forces  enough  in  the  world 
to-day  to  make  us  happy,  even  for  a  little  space. 
Come  back  to  us,  Harry — make  us  laugh  again!" 

It  was  when  those  letters  came  that,  for  the 
first  time,  I  saw  that  I  had  others  to  consider 
beside  myself,  and  that  it  was  not  only  my  own 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  83 

wishes  that  I  might  take  into  account.  I  talked  to 
my  wife,  and  I  told  her  of  those  letters,  and  there 
were  tears  in  both  our  eyes  as  we  thought  about 
those  folks  who  knew  the  sorrow  that  was  in  our 
hearts. 

"You  must  think  about  them,  Harry,"  she 
said. 

And  so  I  did  think  about  them.  And  then  I 
began  to  find  that  there  were  others  still  about 
whom  I  must  think.  There  were  three  hundred 
people  in  the  cast  of  "Three  Cheers,"  at  the 
Shaftesbury  Theatre,  in  London.  And  I  began  to 
hear  now  that  unless  I  went  back  the  show  would 
be  closed,  and  all  of  them  would  be  out  of  work. 
At  that  season  of  the  year,  in  the  theatrical 
world,  it  would  be  hard  for  them  to  find  other 
engagements,  and  they  were  not,  most  of  them, 
like  me,  able  to  live  without  the  salaries  from  the 
show.  They  wrote  to  me,  many  of  them,  and 
begged  me  to  come  back.  And  I  knew  that  it  was 
a  desperate  time  for  anyone  to  be  without  employ- 
ment. I  had  to  think  about  those  poor  souls.  And 
I  could  not  bear  the  thought  that  I  might  be  the 
means,  however  innocent,  of  bringing  hardship 
and  suffering  upon  others.  It  might  not  be  my 
fault,  and  yet  it  would  lie  always  upon  my  con- 
science. 

Yet,  even  with  all  such  thoughts  and  prayers  to 
move  me,  I  did  not  see  how  I  could  yield  to  them 
and  go  back.  Even  after  I  had  come  to  the  point. 


84  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

of  being  willing  to  go  back  if  I  could,  I  did  not 
think  I  could  go  through  with  it.  I  was  afraid  I 
would  break  down  if  I  tried  to  play  my  part.  I 
talked  to  Tom  Vallance,  my  brother-in-law. 

"It's  very  well  to  talk,  Tom,"  I  said.  "  But 
they  'd  ring  the  curtain  down  on  me !  I  can  never 
doit!" 

"You  must!"  he  said.  "Harry,  you  must  go 
back!  It's  your  duty!  What  would  the  boy  be 
saying  and  having  you  do?  Don't  you  remember, 
Harry?  John's  last  words  to  his  men  were — 
'Carry  On!'  That's  what  it  is  they're  asking  you 
to  do,  too,  Harry,  and  it 's  what  John  would  have 
wanted.  It  would  be  his  wish." 

And  I  knew  that  he  was  right.  Tom  had  found 
the  one  argument  that  could  really  move  me  and 
make  me  see  my  duty  as  the  others  did.  So  I  gave 
in.  I  wired  to  the  management  that  I  would  re- 
join the  cast  of  "Three  Cheers,"  and  I  took  the 
train  to  London.  And  as  I  rode  in  the  train  it 
seemed  to  me  that  the  roar  of  the  wheels  made  a 
refrain,  and  I  could  hear  them  pounding  out  those 
two  words,  in  my  boy's  voice :  "Carry  On!" 

But  how  hard  it  was  to  face  the  thought  of  going 
before  an  audience  again !  And  especially  in  such 
circumstances.  There  were  to  be  gayety  and  life 
and  light  and  sparkle  all  about  me.  There  were 
to  be  lassies,  in  their  gay  dresses,  and  the  mer- 
riest music  in  London.  And  my  part  was  to  be 
merry,  too,  and  to  make  the  great  audience  laugh 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  85 

that  I  would  see  beyond  the  footlights.  And  I 
thought  of  the  Merryman  in  The  Yeomen  of  the 
Guard,  and  that  I  must  be  a  little  like  him,  though 
my  cause  for  grief  was  different. 

But  I  had  given  my  word,  and  though  I  longed, 
again  and  again,  as  I  rode  toward  London,  and 
as  the  time  drew  near  for  my  performance,  to 
back  out,  there  was  no  way  that  I  could  do  so. 
And  Tom  Vallance  did  his  besfto  cheer  me  and 
hearten  me,  and  relieve  my  nervousness.  I  have 
never  been  so  nervous  before.  Not  since  I  made 
my  first  appearance  before  an  audience  have  I 
been  so  near  to  stage  fright. 

I  would  not  see  anyone  that  night,  when  I 
reached  the  theatre.  I  stayed  in  my  dressing- 
room,  and  Tom  Vallance  stayed  with  me,  and  kept 
everyone  who  tried  to  speak  with  me  away.  There 
were  good  folk,  and  kindly  folk,  friends  of  mine 
in  the  company,  who  wanted  to  shake  my  hand 
and  tell  me  how  they  felt  for  me,  but  he  knew  that 
it  was  better  for  them  not  to  see  me  yet,  and  he 
was  my  bodyguard. 

"It's  no  use,  Tom,"  I  said  to  him,  again  and 
again,  after  I  was  dressed  and  in  my  make  up. 
I  was  cold  first,  and  then  hot.  And  I  trembled 
in  every  limb.  "  They  '11  have  to  ring  the  curtain 
down  on  me. ' ' 

"You'll  be  all  right,  Harry,"  he  said.  "So 
soon  as  you're  out  there!  Eemember,  they're  all 
your  friends!" 


86  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

But  he  could  not  comfort  me.  I  felt  sure  that  it 
was  a  foolish  thing  for  me  to  try  to  do;  that  I 
could  not  go  through  with  it.  And  I  was  sorry, 
for  the  thousandth  time,  that  I  had  let  them  per- 
suade me  to  make  the  effort. 

A  call  boy  came  at  last  to  warn  me  that  it  was 
nearly  time  for  my  first  entrance.  I  went  with 
Tom  into  the  wings,  and  stood  there,  waiting.  I 
was  pale  under  my  make  up,  and  I  was  shaking 
and  trembling  like  a  baby.  And  even  then  I 
wanted  to  cry  off.  But  I  remembered  my  boy, 
and  those  last  words  of  his — r* '  Carry  On ! "  I  must 
not  fail  him  without  at  least  trying  to  do  what 
he  would  have  wanted  me  to  do ! 

My  entrance  was  with  a  lilting  little  song  called 
'  *  I  Love  My  Jean. ' '  And  I  knew  that  in  a  moment 
my  cue  would  be  given,  and  I  would  hear  the 
music  of  that  song  beginning.  I  was  as  cold  as 
if  I  had  been  in  an  icy  street,  although  it  was  hot. 
I  thought  of  the  two  thousand  people  who  were 
waiting  for  me  beyond  the  footlights — the  house 
was  a  big  one,  and  it  was  packed  full  that 
night. 

"I  can't,  Tom— I  can't!"  I  cried. 

But  he  only  smiled,  and  gave  me  a  little  push 
as  my  cue  came  and  the  music  began.  I  could 
scarcely  hear  it ;  it  was  like  music  a  great  distance 
off,  coming  very  faintly  to  my  ears.  And  I  said 
a  prayer,  inside.  I  asked  God  to  be  good  to  me 
once  more,  and  to  give  me  strength,  and  to  bear 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  87 

me  through  this  ordeal  that  I  was  facing,  as  he 
had  borne  me  through  before.  And  then  I  had  to 
step  into  the  full  glare  of  the  great  lights. 

I  felt  as  if  I  were  in  a  dream.  The  people  were 
unreal — stretching  away  from  me  in  long,  slop- 
ing rows,  their  white  faces  staring  at  me  from  the 
darkness  beyond  the  great  lights.  And  there  was 
a  little  ripple  that  ran  through  them  as  I  went 
out,  as  if  a  great  many  people,  all  at  the  same 
moment,  had  caught  their  breath. 

I  stood  and  faced  them,  and  the  music  sounded 
in  my  ears.  For  just  a  moment  they  were  still. 
And  then  they  were  shaken  by  a  mighty  roar. 
They  cheered  and  cheered  and  cheered.  They 
stood  up  and  waved  to  me.  I  could  hear  their 
voices  rising,  and  cries  coming  to  me,  with  my 
own  name  among  them. 

" Bravo,  Harry!"  I  heard  them  call.  And  then 
there  were  more  cheers,  and  a  great  clapping  of 
hands.  And  I  have  been  told  that  everywhere  in 
that  great  audience  men  and  women  were  crying, 
and  that  the  tears  were  rolling  down  their  cheeks 
without  ever  an  attempt  by  any  of  them  to  hide 
them  or  to  check  them.  It  was  the  most  wonderful 
and  the  most  beautiful  demonstration  I  have  ever 
seen,  in  all  the  years  that  I  have  been  upon  the 
stage.  Many  and  many  a  time  audiences  have 
been  good  to  me.  They  have  clapped  me  and  they 
have  cheered  me,  but  never  has  an  audience 
treated  me  as  that  one  did.  I  had  to  use  every 


88  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

bit  of  strength  and  courage  that  I  had  to  keep 
from  breaking  down. 

To  this  day  I  do  not  know  how  I  got  through 
with  that  first  song  that  night.  I  do  not  even 
know  whether  I  really  sang  it.  But  I  think  that, 
somehow,  blindly,  without  knowing  what  I  was 
doing,  I  did  get  through ;  I  did  sing  it  to  the  end. 
Habit,  the  way  that  I  was  used  to  it,  I  suppose, 
helped  me  to  carry  on.  And  when  I  left  the  stage 
the  whole  company,  it  seemed  to  me,  was  waiting 
for  me.  They  were  crying  and  laughing,  hys- 
terically, and  they  crowded  around  me,  and  kissed 
me,  and  hugged  me,  and  wrung  my  hand. 

It  seemed  that  the  worst  of  my  ordeal  was  over. 
But  in  the  last  act  I  had  to  face  another  test. 

There  was  a  song  for  me  in  that  last  act  that 
was  the  great  song  in  London  that  season.  I  have 
sung  it  all  over  America  since  then — "The  Lad- 
dies Who  Fought  and  Won."  It  has  been  suc- 
cessful everywhere — that  song  has  been  one  of  the 
most  popular  I  have  ever  sung.  But  it  was  a  cruel 
song  for  me  to  sing  that  night ! 

It  was  the  climax  of  the  last  act  and  of  the 
whole  piece.  In  "Three  Cheers"  soldiers  were 
brought  on  each  night  to  be  on  the  stage  behind 
me  when  I  sang  that  song.  They  were  from  the 
battalion  of  the  Scots  Guards  in  London,  and  they 
were  real  soldiers,  in  uniform.  Different  men 
were  used  each  night,  and  the  money  that  was 
paid  to  the  Tommies  for  their  work  went  into  the 


89 


company  fund  of  the  men  who  appeared,  and 
helped  to  provide  them  with  comforts  and  luxu- 
ries. And  the  war  office  was  glad  of  the  arrange- 
ment, too,  for  it  was  a  great  song  to  stimulate 
recruiting. 

There  were  two  lines  in  the  refrain  that  I  shall 
never  forget.  And  it  was  when  I  came  to  those 
two  lines  that  night  that  I  did,  indeed,  break 
down.  Here  they  are : 

"When  we  all  gather  round  the  old  fireside 
And  the  fond  mother  kisses  her  son — " 

Were  they  not  cruel  words  for  me  to  have  to 
sing,  who  knew  that  his  mother  could  never  kiss 
my  son  again?  They  brought  it  all  back  to  me! 
My  son  was  gone — he  would  never  come  back  with 
the  laddies  who  had  fought  and  won! 

For  a  moment  I  could  not  go  on.  I  was  chok- 
ing. The  tears  were  in  my  eyes,  and  my  throat 
was  choked  with  sobs.  But  the  music  went  on, 
and  the  chorus  took  up  the  song,  and  between  the 
singers  and  the  orchestra  they  covered  the  break 
my  emotion  had  made.  And  in  a  little  space  I  was 
able  to  go  on  with  the  next  verse,  and  to  carry  on 
until  my  part  in  the  show  was  done  for  the  night. 
But  I  still  wondered  how  it  was  that  they  had  not 
had  to  ring  down  the  curtain  upon  me,  and  that 
Tom  Vallance  and  the  others  had  been  right  and 
I  the  one  that  was  wrong ! 


90  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

Ah,  weel,  I  learned  that  night  what  many  and 
many  another  Briton  had  learned,  both  at  home 
and  in  France — that  you  can  never  know  what 
you  can  do  until  you  have  to  find  it  out!  Yon 
was  the  hardest  task  ever  I  had  to  undertake,  but 
for  my  boy's  sake,  and  because  they  had  made  me 
understand  that  it  was  what  he  would  have 
wanted  me  to  do,  I  got  through  with  it. 

They  rose  to  me  again,  and  cheered  and  cheered, 
after  I  had  finished  singing  "The  Laddies  Who 
Fought  and  Won."  And  there  were  those  who 
called  to  me  for  a  speech,  but  so  much  I  had  to 
deny  them,  good  though  they  had  been  to  me,  and 
much  as  I  loved  them  for  the  way  they  had  re- 
ceived me.  I  had  no  words*  that  night  to  thank 
them,  and  I  could  not  have  spoken  from  that  stage 
had  my  life  depended  upon  it.  I  could  only  get 
through,  after  my  poor  fashion,  with  my  part  in 
the  show. 

But  the  next  night  I  did  pull  myself  together, 
and  I  was  able  to  say  a  few  words  to  the  audience 
— thanks  that  were  simply  and  badly  put,  it  may 
be,  but  that  came  from  the  bottom  of  my  over- 
flowing heart. 


CHAPTER  X 

1HAD  not  believed  it  possible.  But  there  I 
was,  not  only  back  at  work,  back  upon  the 
stage  to  which  I  thought  I  had  said  good-by 
forever,  but  successful  as  I  had  thought  I  could 
never  be  again.  And  so  I  decided  that  I  would 
remain  until  the  engagement  of  " Three  Cheers" 
closed.  But  my  mind  was  made  up  to  retire  after 
that  engagement.  I  felt  that  I  had  done  all  I 
could,  and  that  it  was  time  for  me  to  retire,  and 
to  cease  trying  to  make  others  laugh.  There  was 
no  laughter  in  my  heart,  and  often  and  often,  that 
season,  as  I  cracked  my  merriest  jokes,  my  heart 
was  sore  and  heavy  and  the  tears  were  in  my 
eyes. 

But  slowly  a  new  sort  of  courage  came  to  me. 
I  was  able  to  meet  my  friends  again,  and  to  talk 
to  them,  of  myself  and  of  my  boy.  I  met  brother 
officers  of  his,  and  I  heard  tales  of  him  that  gave 
me  a  new  and  even  greater  pride  in  him  than  I 
had  known  before.  And  my  friends  begged  me  to 
carry  on  in  every  way. 

"You  were  doing  a  great  work  and  a  good 
work,  Harry,"  they  said.  "The  boy  would  want 
you  to  carry  on.  Do  not  drop  all  the  good  you 
were  doing." 

91 


I  knew  that  they  were  right.  To  sit  alone  and 
give  way  to  my  grief  was  a  selfish  thing  to  do  at 
such  a  time.  If  there  was  work  for  me  to  do,  still, 
it  was  my  duty  to  try  to  do  it,  no  matter  how 
greatly  I  would  have  preferred  to  rest  quiet.  At 
this  time  there  was  great  need  of  making  the  peo- 
ple of  Britain  understand  the  need  of  food  con- 
servation, and  so  I  began  to  go  about  London, 
making  speeches  on  that  subject  wherever  people 
could  be  gathered  together  to  listen  to  me.  They 
told  me  I  did  some  good.  And  at  least,  I  tried. 

And  before  long  I  was  glad,  indeed,  that  I  had 
listened  to  the  counsel  of  my  friends  and  had  not 
given  way  to  my  selfish  desire  to  nurse  my  grief 
in  solitude  and  silence.  For  I  realized  that  there 
was  a  real  work  for  me  to  do.  Those  folk  who 
had  begged  me  to  do  my  part  in  lightening  the 
gloom  of  Britain  had  been  right.  There  was  so 
much  sorrow  and  grief  in  the  land  that  it  was  the 
duty  of  all  who  could  dispel  it,  if  even  for  a  little 
space,  to  do  what  they  could.  I  remembered  that 
poem  of  Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox — "  Laugh  and  the 
World  Laughs  With  You!"  And  so  I  tried  to 
laugh,  and  to  make  the  part  of  the  world  that  I 
chanced  to  be  in  laugh  with  me.  For  I  knew  there 
was  weeping  and  sorrowing  enough. 

And  all  the  time  I  felt  that  the  spirit  of  my  boy 
was  with  me,  and  that  he  knew  what  I  was  doing, 
and  why,  and  was  glad,  and  that  he  understood 
that  if  I  laughed  it  was  not  because  I  thought  less 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  93 

often  of  him,  or  missed  him  less  keenly  and  bit- 
terly than  I  had  done  from  the  very  beginning. 

There  was  much  praise  for  my  work  from  high 
officials,  and  it  made  me  proud  and  glad  to  know 
that  the  men  who  were  at  the  head  of  Britain's 
effort  in  the  war  thought  I  was  being  of  use.  One 
time  I  spoke  with  Mr.  Balfour,  the  former  Prime 
Minister,  at  Drury  Lane  Theatre  to  one  of  the 
greatest  war  gatherings  that  was  ever  held  in 
London. 

And  always  and  everywhere  there  were  the 
hospitals,  full  of  the  laddies  who  had  been  brought 
home  from  France.  Ah,  but  they  were  pitiful, 
those  laddies  who  had  fought,  and  won,  and  been 
brought  back  to  be  nursed  back  to  the  life  they 
had  been  so  bravely  willing  to  lay  down  for  their 
country!  But  it  was  hard  to  look  at  them,  and 
know  how  they  were  suffering,  and  to  go  through 
with  the  task  I  had  set  myself  of  cheering  them 
and  comforting  them  in  my  own  way!  There 
were  times  when  it  was  all  I  could  do  to  get 
through  with  my  program. 

They  never  complained.  They  were  always 
bright  and  cheerful,  no  matter  how  terrible  their 
wounds  might  be;  no  matter  what  sacrifices  they 
had  made  of  eyes  and  limbs.  There  were  men  in 
those  hospitals  who  knew  that  they  were  going 
out  no  more  than  half  the  men  they  had  been. 
And  yet  they  were  as  brave  and  careless  of  them- 
selves as  if  their  wounds  had  been  but  trifles.  I 


94  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

think  the  greatest  exhibition  of  courage  and  nerve 
the  world  has  ever  seen  was  to  be  found  in  those 
hospitals  in  London  and,  indeed,  all  over  Britain, 
where  those  wonderful  lads  kept  up  their  spirits 
always,  though  they  knew  they  could  never  again 
be  sound  in  body. 

Many  and  many  of  them  there  were  who  knew 
that  they  could  never  walk  again  the  shady  lanes 
of  their  hameland  or  the  little  streets  of  their 
hame  towns!  Many  and  many  more  there  were 
who  knew  that,  even  after  the  bandages  were 
taken  from  about  their  eyes,  they  would  never  gaze 
again  upon  the  trees  and  the  grass  and  the  flowers 
growing  upon  their  native  hillsides;  that  never 
again  could  they  look  upon  the  faces  of  their 
loved  ones.  They  knew  that  everlasting  darkness 
was  their  portion  upon  this  earth. 

But  one  and  all  they  talked  and  laughed  and 
sang !  And  it  was  there  among  the  hospitals,  that 
I  came  to  find  true  courage  and  good  cheer.  It 
was  not  there  that  I  found  talk  of  discouragement, 
and  longing  for  any  early  peace,  even  though  the 
final  victory  that  could  alone  bring  a  real  peace 
and  a  worthy  peace  had  not  been  won.  No — not 
in  the  hospitals  could  I  find  and  hear  such  talk  as 
that !  For  that  I  had  to  listen  to  those  who  had 
not  gone — who  had  not  had  the  courage  and  the 
nerve  to  offer  all  they  had  and  all  they  were  and 
go  through  that  hell  of  hells  that  is  modern  war ! 

I  saw  other  hospitals  besides  the  ones  in  Lon- 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  95 

don.  After  a  time,  when  I  was  very  tired,  and 
far  from  well,  I  went  to  Scotland  for  a  space  to 
build  myself  up  and  get  some  rest.  And  in  the 
far  north  I  went  fishing  on  the  River  Dee,  which 
runs  through  the  Durrie  estate.  And  while  I 
was  there  the  Laird  heard  of  it.  And  he  sent 
word  to  tell  me  of  a  tiny  hospital  hard  by  where 
a  guid  lady  named  Mrs.  Baird  was  helping  to 
nurse  disabled  men  back  to  health  and  strength. 
He  asked  me  would  I  no  call  upon  the  men  and 
try  to  give  them  a  little  cheer.  And  I  was  glad 
to  hear  of  the  chance  to  help. 

I  laid  down  my  rod  forthwith,  for  here  was  bet- 
ter work  than  fishing — and  in  my  ain  country. 
They  told  me  the  way  that  I  should  go,  and  that 
this  Mrs.  Baird  had  turned  a  little  school  house 
into  a  convalescent  home,  and  was  doing  a  fine 
and  wonderful  work  for  the  laddies  she  had  taken 
in.  So  I  set  out  to  find  it,  and  I  walked  along  a 
country  road  to  come  to  it. 

Soon  I  saw  a  man,  strong  and  hale,  as  it  seemed, 
pushing  a  wheel  chair  along  the  road  toward  me. 
And  in  the  chair  sat  a  man,  and  I  could  see  at' 
once  that  he  had  lost  the  use  of  his  legs — that  he 
was  paralyzed  from  the  waist  down.  It  was  the 
way  he  called  to  him  who  was  pushing  him  that 
made  me  tak  notice. 

"Go  to  the  right,  mon!"  he  would  call.  Or,  a 
moment  later,  "To  the  left  now." 

And  then  they  came  near  to  the  disaster.    The 


96  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

one  who  was  pushing  was  heading  straight  for 
the  side  of  the  road,  and  the  one  in  the  chair  bel- 
lowed out  to  him : 

* '  Whoa  there ! "  he  called.  ' '  Mon — ye  're  taking 
me  into  the  ditch !  Where  would  ye  be  going  with 
me,  anyway?" 

And  then  I  understood.  The  man  who  was 
pushing  was  blind!  They  had  but  the  one  pair 
of  eyes  and  the  one  pair  of  legs  between  the  two 
of  them,  and  it  was  so  that  they  contrived  to  go 
out  together  without  taking  help  from  anyone 
else !  And  they  were  both  as  cheerful  as  wee  lad- 
dies out  for  a  lark.  It  was  great  sport  for  them. 
And  it  was  they  who  gave  me  my  directions  to  get 
to  Mrs.  Baird's. 

They  disputed  a  little  about  the  way.  The 
blind  man,  puir  laddie,  thought  he  knew.  And  he 
did  not — not  quite.  But  he  corrected  the  man  who 
could  see  but  could  not  walk. 

"It's  the  wrong  road  you're  giving  the  gentle- 
man," he  said.  "It's  the  second  turn  he  should 
be  taking,  not  the  first. ' ' 

And  the  other  would  not  argue  with  him.  It 
was  a  kindly  thing,  the  way  he  kept  quiet,  and 
did  but  wink  at  me,  that  I  might  know  the  truth. 
He  trusted  me  to  understand  and  to  know  why  he 
was  acting  as  he  was,  and  I  blessed  him  in  my 
heart  for  his  thoughtfulness.  And  so  I  thanked 
them,  and  passed  on,  and  reached  Mrs.  Baird's, 
and  found  a  royal  welcome  there,  and  when  they 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  97 

asked  me  if  I  would  sing  for  the  soldiers,  and  I 
said  it  was  for  that  that  I  had  come,  there  were 
tears  in  Mrs.  Baird's  eyes.  And  so  I  gave  a  wee 
concert  there,  and  sang  my  songs,  and  did  my  best 
to  cheer  up  those  boys. 

Ah,  my  puir,  brave  Scotland — my  bonnie  little 
Scotland! 

No  part  of  all  the  United  Kingdom,  and,  for 
that  matter,  no  part  of  the  world,  has  played  a 
greater  part,  in  proportion  to  its  size  and  its 
ability,  than  has  Scotland  in  this  war  for  human- 
ity against  the  black  force  that  has  attacked  it. 
Nearly  a  million  men  has  Scotland  sent  to  the 
army — out  of  a  total  population  of  five  million! 
One  in  five  of  all  her  people  have  gone.  No  coun- 
try in  the  world  has  ever  matched  that  record. 
Ah,  there  were  no  slackers  in  Scotland !  And  they 
are  still  going — they  are  still  going!  As  fast  as 
they  are  old  enough,  as  fast  as  restrictions  are 
removed,  so  that  men  are  taken  who  were  turned 
back  at  first  by  the  recruiting  officers,  as  fast  as 
men  see  to  it  that  some  provision  is  made  for 
those  they  must  leave  behind  them,  they  are  put- 
ting on  the  King's  uniform  and  going  out  against 
the  Hun.  My  country,  my  ain  Scotland,  is  not 
great  in  area.  It  is  not  a  rich  country  in  worldly 
goods  or  money.  But  it  is  big  with  a  bigness  be- 
yond measurement,  it  is  rich  beyond  the  wildest 
dreams  of  avarice,  in  patriotism,  in  love  of  coun- 
try, and  in  bravery. 


98  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

We  have  few  young  men  left  in  Scotland.  It  is 
rarely  indeed  that  in  a  Scottish  village,  in  a  glen, 
even  in  a  city,  you  see  a  young  man  in  these  days. 
Only  the  very  old  are  left,  and  the  men  of  middle 
age.  And  you  know  why  the  young  men  you  see 
are  there.  They  cannot  go,  because,  although 
their  spirit  is  willing  their  flesh  is  too  weak  to  let 
them  go,  for  one  reason  or  another.  Factory  and 
field  and  forge — all  have  been  stripped  to  fill  the 
Scottish  regiments  and  keep  them  at  their  full 
strength.  And  in  Scotland,  as  in  England,  women 
have  stepped  in  to  fill  the  places  their  men  have 
left  vacant.  This  war  is  not  to  be  fought  by  men 
alone.  Women  have  their  part  to  play,  and  they 
are  playing  it  nobly,  day  after  day.  The  women 
of  Scotland  have  seen  their  duty;  they  have 
heard  their  country's  call,  and  they  have  an- 
swered it. 

You  will  find  it  hard  to  discover  anyone  in 
domestic  service  to-day  in  Scotland.  The  folk 
who  used  to  keep  servants  sent  them  packing  long 
since,  to  work  where  they  would  be  of  more  use 
to  their  country.  The  women  of  each  household 
are  doing  the  work  about  the  house,  little  though 
they  may  have  been  accustomed  to  such  tasks  in 
the  days  of  peace.  And  they  glory  and  take  pride 
in  the  knowledge  that  they  are  helping  to  fill  a 
place  in  the  munitions  factories  or  in  some  other 
necessary  war  work. 

Do  not  look  along  the  Scottish  roads  for  folk 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  99 

riding  in  motor  cars  for  pleasure.  Indeed,  you 
will  waste  your  time  if  you  look  for  pleasure- 
making  of  any  sort  in  Scotland  to-day.  Scotland 
has  gone  back  to  her  ancient  business  of  war,  and 
she  is  carrying  it  on  in  the  most  businesslike  way, 
sternly  and  relentlessly.  But  that  is  true  all  over 
the  United  Kingdom ;  I  do  not  claim  that  Scotland 
takes  the  war  more  seriously  than  the  rest  of 
Britain.  But  I  do  think  that  she  has  set  an  exam- 
ple by  the  way  she  has  flung  herself,  tooth  and 
nail,  into  the  mighty  task  that  confronts  us  all — 
all  of  us  allies  who  are  leagued  against  the  Hun 
and  his  plan  to  conquer  the  world  and  make  it 
bow  its  neck  in  submission  under  his  iron  heel. 

Let  me  tell  you  how  Scotland  takes  this  war. 
Let  me  show  you  the  homecoming  of  a  Scottish 
soldier,  back  from  the  trenches  on  leave.  Why, 
he  is  received  with  no  more  ceremony  than  if  he 
were  coming  home  from  his  day's  work! 

Donald — or  Jock  might  be  his  name,  or  Andy! 
— steps  from  the  train  at  his  old  name  town.  He 
is  fresh  from  the  mud  of  the  Flanders  trenches, 
and  all  his  possessions  and  his  kit  are  on  his  back, 
so  that  he  is  more  like  a  beast  of  burden  than  the 
natty  creature  old  tradition  taught  us  to  think  a 
soldier  must  always  be.  On  his  boots  there  are 
still  dried  blobs  of  mud  from  some  hole  in  France 
that  is  like  a  crater  in  hell.  His  uniform  will  be 
pretty  sure  to  be  dirty,  too,  and  torn,  and  perhaps, 
if  you  looked  closely  at  it,  you  would  see  stains 


100  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

upon  it  that  you  might  not  be  far  wrong  in  guess- 
ing to  be  blood. 

Leave  long  enough  to  let  him  come  home  to 
Scotland — a  long  road  it  is  from  France  to  Scot- 
land these  days ! — has  been  a  rare  thing  for  Jock. 
He  will  have  been  campaigning  a  long  time  to 
earn  it — months  certainly,  and  maybe  even  years. 
Perhaps  he  was  one  of  these  who  went  out  first. 
He  may  have  been  mentioned  in  dispatches ;  there 
may  be  a  distinguished  conduct  medal  hidden 
about  him  somewhere — worth  all  the  iron  crosses 
the  Kaiser  ever  gave !  He  has  seen  many  a  bloody 
field,  be  sure  of  that.  He  has  heard  the  sounding 
of  the  gas  alarm,  and  maybe  got  a  whiff  of  the 
dirty  poison  gas  the  Huns  turned  loose  against 
our  boys.  He  has  looked  Death  in  the  face  so 
often  that  he  has  grown  used  to  him.  But  now 
he  is  back  in  Scotland,  safe  and  sound,  free  from 
battle  and  the  work  of  the  trenches  for  a  space, 
home  to  gain  new  strength  for  his  next  bout  with 
Fritz  across  the  water. 

When  he  gets  off  the  train  Jock  looks  about 
him,  from  force  of  habit.  But  no  one  has  come 
to  the  station  to  meet  him,  and  he  looks  as  if  that 
gave  him  neither  surprise  nor  concern.  For  a 
minute,  perhaps,  he  will  look  around  him,  wonder- 
ing, I  think,  that  things  are  so  much  as  they  were, 
fixing  in  his  mind  the  old  familiar  scenes  that 
have  brought  him  cheer  so  often  in  black,  deadly 
nights  in  the  trenches  or  in  lonely  billets  out  there 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  101 

in  France.  And  then,  quietly,  and  as  if  he  were 
indeed  just  home  from  some  short  trip,  he  shifts 
his  pack,  so  that  it  lies  comfortably  across  his 
back,  and  trudges  off.  There  would  be  cabs 
around  the  station,  but  it  would  not  come  into 
Jock's  mind  to  hail  one  of  the  drivers.  He  has 
been  used  to  using  Shank's  Mare  in  France  when 
he  wanted  to  go  anywhere,  and  so  now  he  sets  off 
quietly,  with  his  long,  swinging  soldier's  stride. 

As  he  walks  along  he  is  among  scenes  familiar 
to  him  since  his  boyhood.  Yon  house,  yon  barn, 
yon  wooded  rise  against  the  sky  are  landmarks 
for  him.  And  he  is  pretty  sure  to  meet  old 
friends.  They  nod  to  him,  pleasantly,  and  with  a 
smile,  but  there  is  no  excitement,  no  strangeness, 
in  their  greeting.  For  all  the  emotion  they  show, 
these  folk  to  whom  he  has  come  back,  as  from  the 
grave,  they  might  have  seen  him  yesterday,  and 
the  day  before  that,  and  the  war  never  have  been 
at  all.  And  Jock  thinks  nothing  of  it  that  they 
are  not  more  excited  about  him.  You  and  I  may 
be  thinking  of  Jock  as  a  hero,  but  that  is  not  his 
idea  about  himself.  He  is  just  a  Tommy,  home 
on  leave  from  France — one  of  a  hundred  thou- 
sand, maybe.  And  if  he  thought  at  all  about  the 
way  his  home  folk  greeted  him  it  would  be  just 
so — that  he  could  not  expect  them  to  be  making  a 
fuss  about  one  soldier  out  of  so  many.  And,  since 
he,  Jock,  is  not  much  excited,  not  much  worked 
up,  because  he  is  seeing  these  good  folk  again,  he 


102  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

does  not  think  it  strange  that  they  are  not  more 
excited  about  the  sight  of  him.  It  would  be  if 
they  did  make  a  fuss  over  him,  and  welcome  him 
loudly,  that  he  would  think  it  strange ! 

And  at  last  he  comes  to  his  own  old  home.  He 
will  stop  and  look  around  a  bit.  Maybe  he  has 
seen  that  old  house  a  thousand  times  out  there, 
tried  to  remember  every  line  and  corner  of  it. 
And  maybe,  as  he  looks  down  the  quiet  village 
street,  he  is  thinking  of  how  different  France  was. 
And,  deep  down  in  his  heart,  Jock  is  glad  that 
everything  is  as  it  was,  and  that  nothing  has  been 
changed.  He  could  not  tell  you  why ;  he  could  not 
put  his  feeling  into  words.  But  it  is  there,  deep 
down,  and  the  truer  and  the  keener  because  it  is 
so  deep.  Ah,  Jock  may  take  it  quietly,  and  there 
may  be  no  way  for  him  to  show  his  heart,  but  he 
is  glad  to  be  home ! 

And  at  his  gate  will  come,  as  a  rule,  Jock's  first 
real  greeting.  A  dog,  grown  old  since  his  depar- 
ture, will  come  out,  wagging  his  tail,  and  licking 
the  soldier 's  hand.  And  Jock  will  lean  down,  and 
give  his  old  dog  a  pat.  If  the  dog  had  .not  come 
he  would  have  been  surprised  and  disappointed. 
And  so,  glad  with  every  fibre  of  his  being,  Jock 
goes  in,  and  finds  father  and  mother  and  sisters 
within.  They  look  up  at  his  coming,  and  their 
happiness  shines  for  a  moment  in  their  eyes.  But 
they  are  not  the  sort  of  people  to  show  their  emo- 
tions or  make  a  fuss.  Mother  and  girls  will  rise 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  103 

and  kiss  him,  and  begin  to  take  his  gear,  and  his 
father  will  shake  him  by  the  hand. 

''Well,"  the  father  will  ask,  "how  are  you  get- 
ting along,  lad?" 

And — '  *  All  right, ' '  he  will  answer.  That  is  the 
British  soldier's  answer  to  that  question,  always 
and  everywhere. 

Then  he  sits  down,  happy  and  at  rest,  and  lights 
his  pipe,  maybe,  and  looks  about  the  old  room 
which  holds  so  many  memories  for  him.  And  sup- 
per will  be  ready,  you  may  be  sure.  They  will  not 
have  much  to  say,  these  folk  of  Jock's,  but  if  you 
look  at  his  face  as  dish  after  dish  is  set  before 
him,  you  will  understand  that  this  is  a  feast  that 
has  been  prepared  for  him.  They  may  have  been 
going  without  all  sorts  of  good  things  themselves, 
but  they  have  contrived,  in  some  fashion,  to  have 
them  all  for  Jock.  All  Scotland  has  tightened  its 
belt,  and  done  its  part,  in  that  fashion,  as  in  every 
other,  toward  the  winning  of  the  war.  But  for  the 
soldiers  the  best  is  none  too  good.  And  Jock's 
folk  would  rather  make  him  welcome  so,  by  proof 
that  takes  no  words,  than  by  demonstrations  of 
delight  and  of  affection. 

As  he  eats,  they  gather  round  him  at  the  board, 
and  they  tell  him  all  the  gossip  of  the  neighbor- 
hood. He  does  not  talk  about  the  war,  and,  if  they 
are  curious — probably  they  are  not ! — they  do  not 
ask  him  questions.  They  think  that  he  wants  to 
forget  about  the  war  and  the  trenches  and  the 


104  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

mud,  and  they  are  right.  And  so,  after  he  has 
eaten  his  fill,  he  lights  his  pipe  again,  and  sits 
about.  And  maybe,  as  it  grows  dark,  he  takes  a 
bit  walk  into  town.  He  walks  slowly,  as  if  he  is 
glad  that  for  once  he  need  not  be  in  a  hurry,  and 
he  stops  to  look  into  shop  windows  as  if  he  had 
never  seen  their  stocks  before,  though  you  may  be 
sure  that,  in  a  Scottish  village,  he  has  seen  every- 
thing they  have  to  offer  hundreds  of  times. 

He  will  meet  friends,  maybe,  and  they  will  stop 
and  nod  to  him.  And  perhaps  one  of  six  will  stop 
longer. 

"How  are  you  getting  on,  Jock!"  will  be  the 
question. 

"All  right!"  Jock  will  say.  And  he  will  think 
the  question  rather  fatuous,  maybe.  If  he  were 
not  all  right,  how  should  he  be  there  ?  But  if  Jock 
had  lost  both  legs,  or  an  arm,  or  if  he  had  been 
blinded,  that  would  still  be  his  answer.  Those 
words  have  become  a  sort  of  slogan  for  the  Brit- 
ish army,  that  typify  its  spirit. 

Jock's  walk  is  soon  over,  and  he  goes  home,  by 
an  old  path  that  is  known  to  him,  every  foot  of 
it,  and  goes  to  bed  in  his  own  old  bed.  He  has 
not  broken  into  the  routine  of  the  household,  and 
he  sees  no  reason  why  he  should.  And  the  next 
day  it  is  much  the  same  for  him.  He  gets  up  as 
early  as  he  ever  did,  and  he  is  likely  to  do  a  few 
odd  bits  of  work  that  his  father  has  not  had  time 
to  come  to.  He  talks  with  his  mother  and  the 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  105 

girls  of  all  sorts  of  little,  commonplace  things, 
and  with  his  father  he  discusses  the  affairs  of  the 
community.  And  in  the  evening  he  strolls  down 
town  again,  and  exchanges  a  few  words  with 
friends,  and  learns,  perhaps,  of  boys  who  haven't 
been  lucky  enough  to  get  home  on  leave — of  boys 
with  whom  he  grew  up,  who  have  gone  west. 

So  it  goes  on  for  several  days,  each  day  the 
same.  Jock  is  quietly  happy.  It  is  no  task  to 
entertain  him ;  he  does  not  want  to  be  entertained. 
The  peace  and  quiet  of  home  are  enough  for  him ; 
they  are  change  enough  from  the  turmoil  of  the 
front  and  the  ceaseless  grind  of  the  life  in  the 
army  in  France. 

And  then  Jock's  leave  nears  its  end,  and  it  is 
time  for  him  to  go  back.  He  tells  them,  and  he 
makes  his  few  small  preparations.  They  will 
have  cleaned  his  kit  for  him,  and  mended  some 
of  his  things  that  needed  mending.  And  when  it 
is  time  for  him  to  go  they  help  him  on  with  his 
pack  and  he  kisses  his  mother  and  the  girls 
good-by,  and  shakes  hands  with  his  father. 

"Well,  good-by,"  Jock  says.  He  might  be 
going  to  work  in  a  factory  a  few  miles  off.  "I'll 
be  all  right.  Good-by,  now.  Don't  you  cry,  now, 
mother,  and  you,  Jeannie  and  Maggie.  Don't  you 
fash  yourselves  about  me.  I'll  be  back  again. 
And  if  I  shouldn't  come  back — why,  I'll  be  all 
right." 

So  he  goes,  and  they  stand  looking  after  him, 


106  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

and  his  old  dog  wonders  why  he  is  going,  and 
where,  and  makes  a  move  to  follow  him,  maybe. 
But  he  marches  off  down  the  street,  alone,  never 
looking  back,  and  is  waiting  when  the  train  comes. 
It  will  be  full  of  other  Jocks  and  Andrews  and 
Tarns,  on  their  way  back  to  France,  like  him,  and 
he  will  nod  to  some  he  knows  as  he  settles  down 
in  the  carriage. 

And  in  just  two  days  Jock  will  have  traveled 
the  length  of  England,  and  crossed  the  channel, 
and  ridden  up  to  the  front.  He  will  have  re- 
ported himself,  and  have  been  ordered,  with  his 
company,  into  the  trenches.  And  on  the  third 
night,  had  you  followed  him,  you  might  see  him 
peering  over  the  parapet  at  the  lines  of  the  Hun, 
across  No  Man's  Land,  and  listening  to  the  whine 
of  bullets  and  the  shriek  of  shells  over  his  head, 
with  a  star  shell,  maybe,  to  throw  a  green  light 
upon  him  for  a  moment. 

So  it  is  that  a  warrior  comes  and  that  a  war- 
rior goes  in  a  land  where  war  is  war;  in  a  land 
where  war  has  become  the  business  of  all  every 
day,  and  has  settled  down  into  a  matter  of  routine. 


CHAPTER  XI 

I  COULD  not,  much  as  I  should  in  many  ways 
have  liked  to  do  so,  prolong  my  stay  in  Scot- 
land. The  peace  and  the  restfulness  of  the 
Highlands,  the  charm  of  the  heather  and  the  hills, 
the  long,  lazy  days  with  my  rod,  whipping  some 
favorite  stream — ah,  they  made  me  happy  for  a 
moment,  but  they  could  not  make  me  forget !  My 
duty  called  me  back,  and  the  thought  of  war,  and 
suffering,  and  there  were  moments  when  it  seemed 
to  me  that  nothing  could  keep  me  from  plung- 
ing again  into  the  work  I  had  set  out  to  do. 

In  those  days  I  was  far  too  restless  to  be  taking 
my  ease  at  home,  in  my  wee  hoose  at  Dunoon.  A 
thousand  activities  called  me.  The  rest  had  been 
necessary;  I  had  had  to  admit  that,  and  to  obey 
my  doctor,  for  I  had  been  feeling  the  strain  of 
my  long  continued  activity,  piled  up,  as  it  was, 
on  top  of  my  grief  and  care.  And  yet  I  was  eager 
to  be  off  and  about  my  work  again. 

I  did  not  want  to  go  back  to  the  same  work  I 
had  been  doing.  No!  I  was  still  a  young  man. 
I  was  younger  than  men  and  officers  who  were 
taking  their  turn  in  the  trenches.  I  was  but  forty- 
six  years  old,  and  there  was  a  lot  of  life  and  snap 
in  the  old  dog  yet!  My  life  had  been  rightly 

107 


108  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

lived.  As  a  young  man  I  had  worked  in  a  pit,  ye 
ken,  and  that  had  given  me  a  strength  in  my  back 
and  my  legs  that  would  have  served  me  well  in 
the  trenches.  War,  these  days,  means  hard  work 
as  well  as  fighting — more,  indeed.  War  is  a  busi- 
ness, a  great  industry,  now.  There  is  all  manner 
of  work  that  must  be  done  at  the  front  and  right 
behind  it.  Aye,  and  I  was  eager  to  be  there  and 
to  be  doing  my  share  of  it — and  not  for  the  first 
time. 

Many  a  time,  and  often,  I  had  broached  my  idea 
of  being  allowed  to  enlist,  e'en  before  the  Huns 
killed  my  boy.  But  they  would  no  listen  to  me. 
They  told  me,  each  time,  that  there  was  more  and 
better  work  for  me  to  do  at  hame  in  Britain,  spur- 
ring others  on,  cheering  them  when  they  came 
back  maimed  and  broken,  getting  the  country  to 
put  its  shoulder  to  the  wheel  when  it  came  to  sub- 
scribing to  the  war  loans  and  all  the  rest  of  it. 
And  it  seemed  to  me  that  it  was  not  for  me  to 
decide ;  that  I  must  obey  those  who  were  better  in 
a  position  to  judge  than  I  could  be. 

I  went  down  south  to  England,  and  I  talked 
again  of  enlisting  and  trying  to  get  a  crack  at 
those  who  had  killed  my  boy.  And  again  my 
friends  refused  to  listen  to  me. 

"Why,  Harry,"  they  said  to  me — and  not  my 
own  friends,  only,  but  men  highly  placed  enough 
to  make  me  know  that  I  must  pay  heed  to  what 
they  said — "you  must  not  think  of  it!  If  you  en- 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  109 

listed,  or  if  we  got  you  a  commission,  yon  'd  be  but 
one  man  out  there.  Here  you're  worth  many  men 
— a  brigade,  or  a  division,  maybe.  You  are  more 
use  to  us  than  many  men  who  go  out  there  to 
fight.  You  do  great  things  toward  winning  the 
war  every  day.  No,  Harry,  there  is  work  for 
every  man  in  Britain  to  do,  and  you  have  found 
yours  and  are  doing  it." 

I  was  not  content,  though,  even  when  I  seemed 
to  agree  with  them.  I  did  try  to  argue,  but  it  was 
no  use.  And  still  I  felt  that  it  was  no  time  for  a 
man  to  be  playing  and  to  be  giving  so  much  of  his 
time  to  making  others  gay.  It  was  well  for  folk 
to  laugh,  and  to  get  their  minds  off  the  horror  of 
war  for  a  little  time.  Well  I  knew!  Aye,  and  I 
believed  that  I  was  doing  good,  some  good  at 
least,  and  giving  cheer  to  some  puir  laddies  who 
needed  it  sorely.  But — weel,  it  was  no  what  I 
wanted  to  be  doing  when  my  country  was  fighting 
for  her  life !  I  made  up  my  mind,  slowly,  what  it 
was  that  I  wanted  to  do  that  would  fit  in  with  the 
ideas  and  wishes  of  those  whose  word  I  was 
bound  to  heed  and  that  would  still  come  closer 
than  what  I  was  doing  to  meet  my  own  desires. 

Every  day,  nearly,  then,  I  was  getting  letters 
from  the  front.  They  came  from  laddies  whom 
I'd  helped  to  make  up  their  minds  that  they  be- 
longed over  yon,  where  the  men  were.  Some  were 
from  boys  who  came  from  aboot  Dunoon.  I'd 
known  those  laddies  since  they  were  bits  o '  bairns, 


110  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

most  of  them.  And  then  there  were  letters — and 
they  touched  me  as  much  and  came  as  close 
home  as  any  of  them — from  boys  who  were  utter 
strangers  to  me,  but  who  told  me  they  felt  they 
knew  me  because  they'd  seen  me  on  the  stage,  or 
because  their  phonograph,  maybe,  played  some  of 
my  records,  and  because  they'd  read  that  my  boy 
had  shared  their  dangers  and  given  his  life,  as 
they  were  ready,  one  and  all,  to  do. 

And  those  letters,  nearly  all,  had  the  same  re- 
frain. They  wanted  me.  They  wanted  me  to 
come  to  them,  since  they  couldn't  be  coming 
to  me. 

' '  Come  on  out  here  and  see  us  and  sing  for  us, 
Harry, ' '  they  'd  write  to  me.  ' '  It  'd  be  a  fair  treat 
to  see  your  mug  and  hear  you  singing  about  the 
wee  hoose  amang  the  heather  or  the  bonnie,  bon- 
nie  lassie!" 

How  could  a  man  get  such  a  plea  as  that  and 
not  want  to  do  what  those  laddies  asked?  How 
could  he  think  of  the  great  deal  they  were  doing 
and  not  want  to  do  the  little  bit  they  asked  of  him ! 
But  it  was  no  a  simple  matter,  ye  '11  ken !  I  could 
not  pack  a  bag  and  start  for  France  from  Charing 
Cross  or  Victoria  as  I  might  have  done — and  often 
did — before  the  war.  No  one  might  go  to  France 
unless  he  had  passports  and  leave  from  the  war 
office,  and  many  another  sort  of  arrangement 
there  was  to  make.  But  I  set  wheels  in  motion. 

Just  to  go  to  France  to  sing  for  the  boys  would 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  111 

have  been  easy  enough.  They  told  me  that  at 
once. 

"What!  Harry  Lauder  wants  to  go  to  France 
to  sing  for  the  soldiers!  He  shall — whenever  he 
pleases !  Tell  him  we  '11  be  glad  to  send  him ! ' ' 

So  said  the  war  office.  But  I  knew  what  they 
meant.  They  meant  for  me  to  go  to  one  or  more 
of  the  British  bases  and  give  concerts.  There 
were  troops  moving  in  and  out  of  the  bases  all  the 
time ;  men  who  'd  been  in  the  trenches  or  in  action 
in  an  offensive  and  were  back  in  rest  billets,  or 
even  further  back,  were  there  in  their  thousands. 
But  it  was  the  real  front  I  was  eager  to  reach.  I 
wanted  to  be  where  my  boy  had  been,  and  to  see 
his  grave.  I  wanted  to  sing  for  the  laddies  who 
were  bearing  the  brunt  of  the  big  job  over  there 
— while  they  were  bearing  it. 

And  that  no  one  had  done.  Many  of  our  lead- 
ing actors  and  singers  and  other  entertainers 
were  going  back  and  forth  to  France  all  the  time. 
Never  a  week  went  by  but  they  were  helping  to 
cheer  up  the  boys  at  the  bases.  It  was  a  grand 
work  they  were  doing,  and  the  boys  were  grateful 
to  them,  and  all  Britain  should  share  that  grati- 
tude. But  it  was  a  wee  bit  more  that  I  wanted  to 
be  doing,  and  there  was  the  rub. 

I  wanted  to  go  up  to  the  battle  lines  themselves 
and  to  sing  for  the  boys  who  were  in  the  thick  of 
the  struggle  with  the  Hun.  I  wanted  to  give  a 
concert  in  a  front-line  trench  where  the  Huns 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 


could  hear  me,  if  they  cared  to  listen.  I  wanted 
them  to  learn  once  more  the  lesson  we  could  never 
teach  them  often  enough  —  the  lesson  of  the  spirit 
of  the  British  army,  that  could  go  into  battle  with 
a  laugh  on  its  lips. 

But  at  first  I  got  no  encouragement  at  all  when 
I  told  what  it  was  in  my  mind  to  do.  My  friends 
who  had  influence  shook  their  heads. 

"I'm  afraid  it  can't  be  managed,  Harry,"  they 
told  me.  "It's  never  been  done." 

I  told  them  what  I  believed  myself,  and  what  I 
have  often  thought  of  when  things  looked  hard 
and  prospects  were  dark.  I  told  them  everything 
had  to  be  done  for  the  first  time  sometime,  and  I 
begged  them  not  to  give  up  the  effort  to  win  my 
way  for  me.  And  so  I  knew  that  when  they  told 
me  no  one  had  done  it  before  it  wasn't  reason 
enough  why  I  shouldn't  do  it.  And  I  made  up  my 
mind  that  I  would  be  the  pioneer  in  giving  con- 
certs under  fire  if  that  should  turn  out  to  be  a  part 
of  the  contract. 

But  I  could  not  argue.  I  could  only  say  what  it 
was  that  I  wanted  to  do,  and  wait  the  pleasure  of 
those  whose  duty  it  was  to  decide.  I  couldn't  tell 
the  military  authorities  where  they  must  send  me. 
It  was  for  me  to  obey  when  they  gave  their  orders, 
and  to  go  wherever  they  thought  I  would  do  the 
most  good.  I  would  not  have  you  thinking  that  I 
was  naming  conditions,  and  saying  I  would  go 
where  I  pleased  or  bide  at  hame  I  That  was  not 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  113 

my  way.  All  I  could  do  was  to  hope  that  in  the 
end  they  would  see  matters  as  I  did  and  so  decide 
to  let  me  have  my  way.  But  I  was  ready  for  my 
orders,  whatever  they  might  be. 

There  was  one  thing  I  wanted,  above  all  others, 
to  do  when  I  got  to  France,  and  so  much  I  said.  I 
wanted  to  meet  the  Highland  Brigade,  and  see  the 
bonnie  laddies  in  their  kilts  as  the  Huns  saw  them 
— the  Huns,  who  called  them  the  Ladies  from 
Hell,  and  hated  them  worse  than  they  hated  any 
troops  in  the  whole  British  army. 

Ha'  ye  heard  the  tale  of  the  Scotsman  and  the 
Jew?  Sandy  and  Ikey  they  were,  and  they  were 
having  a  disputatious  argument  together.  Each 
said  he  could  name  more  great  men  of  his  race 
who  were  famous  in  history  than  the  other  could. 
And  they  argued,  and  nearly  came  to  blows,  and 
were  no  further  along  until  they  thought  of  mak- 
ing a  bet.  An  odd  bet  it  was.  For  each  great 
name  that  Sandy  named  of  a  Scot  whom  history 
had  honored  he  was  to  pull  out  one  of  Ikey's  hairs, 
and  Ikey  was  to  have  the  same  privilege. 

"Do  ye  begin!"  said  Sandy. 

"Moses!"  said  Ikey,  and  pulled. 

"Bobbie  Burns!"  cried  Sandy,  and  returned 
the  compliment. 

"Abraham!"  said  Ikey,  and  pulled  again. 

' '  Ouch — Duggie  Haig ! ' '  said  Sandy. 

And  then  Ikey  grabbed  a  handful  of  hairs  at 
once. 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 


1  'Joseph  and  his  brethren!"  he  said,  gloating  a 
bit  as  he  watched  the  tears  starting  from  Sandy's 
eyes  at  the  pain  of  losing  so  many  good  hairs  at 
once. 

"So  it's  pulling  them  out  in  bunches  ye  are!" 
said  Sandy.  "Ah,  well,  man  -  "  And  he 
reached  with  both  his  hands  for  Ikey's  thatch. 

"The  Hieland  Brigade!"  he  roared,  and  pulled 
all  the  hairs  his  two  hands  would  hold  ! 

Ah,  weel,  there  are  sad  thoughts  that  come  to 
me,  as  well  as  proud  and  happy  ones,  when  I  think 
of  the  bonnie  kilted  laddies  who  fought  and  died 
so  nobly  out  there  against  the  Hun!  They  were 
my  own  laddies,  those,  and  it  was  with  them  and 
amang  them  that  my  boy  went  to  his  death.  It 
was  amang  them  I  would  find,  I  thought,  those 
who  could  tell  me  more  than  I  knew  of  how  he  had 
died,  and  of  how  he  had  lived  before  he  died.  And 
I  thought  the  boys  of  the  brigade  would  be  glad 
to  see  me  and  to  hear  my  songs  —  songs  of  their 
hames  and  their  ain  land,  auld  Scotland.  And  so 
I  used  what  influence  I  had,  and  did  not  think  it 
wrong  to  employ  at  such  a  time,  and  in  such  a 
cause.  For  I  knew  that  if  they  sent  me  to  the 
Hieland  Brigade  they  would  be  sending  me  to  the 
front  of  the  front  line  —  for  that  was  where  I 
would  have  to  go  seeking  the  Hieland  laddies  ! 

I  waited  as  patiently  as  I  could.  And  then  one 
day  I  got  my  orders!  I  was  delighted,  for  the 
thing  they  had  told  me  could  not  be  done  had 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  115 

actually  been  arranged  for  me.  I  was  asked  to  get 
ready  to  go  to  France  to  entertain  the  soldiers, 
and  it  was  the  happiest  day  I  had  known  since  I 
had  heard  of  my  boy's  death. 

There  was  not  much  for  me  to  do  in  the  way  of 
making  ready.  The  whole  trip,  of  course,  would 
be  a  military  one.  I  might  be  setting  out  as  a 
minstrel  for  France,  but  every  detail  of  my  ar- 
rangements had  to  be  made  in  accordance  with 
military  rules,  and  once  I  reached  France  I  would 
be  under  the  orders  of  the  army  in  every  move- 
ment I  might  make.  All  that  was  carefully  ex- 
plained to  me. 

But  still  there  were  things  for  me  to  think  about 
and  to  arrange.  I  wanted  some  sort  of  accom- 
paniment for  my  songs,  and  how  to  get  it  puzzled 
me  for  a  time.  But  there  was  a  firm  in  London 
that  made  pianos  that  heard  of  my  coming  trip, 
and  solved  that  problem  for  me.  They  built,  and 
they  presented  to  me,  the  weest  piano  ever  you 
saw — a  piano  so  wee  that  it  could  be  carried  in 
an  ordinary  motor  car.  Only  five  octaves  it  had, 
but  it  was  big  enough,  and  sma'  enough  at  once. 
I  was  delighted  with  it,  and  so  were  all  who  saw 
it.  It  weighed  only  about  a  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds — less  than  even  a  middling  stout  man! 
And  it  was  cunningly  built,  so  that  no  space  at  all 
was  wasted.  Mrs.  Lauder,  when  she  saw  it,  called 
it  cute,  and  so  did  every  other  woman  who  laid 
eyes  upon  it.  It  was  designed  to  be  carried  on  the 


116  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

grid  of  a  motor  car — and  so  it  was,  for  many  miles 
of  shell-torn  roads ! 

When  I  was  sure  of  my  piano  I  thought  of 
another  thing  it  would  be  well  for  me  to  take  with 
me.  And  so  I  spent  a  hundred  pounds — five  hun- 
dred American  dollars — for  cigarettes.  I  knew 
they  would  be  welcome  everywhere  I  went.  It 
makes  no  matter  how  many  cigarettes  we  send  to 
France,  there  will  never  be  enough.  My  friends 
thought  I  was  making  a  mistake  in  taking  so 
many ;  they  were  afraid  they  would  make  matters 
hard  when  it  came  to  transportation,  and  re- 
minded me  that  I  faced  difficulties  in  that  respect 
in  France  it  was  nearly  impossible  for  us  at  home 
in  Britain  to  visualize  at  all.  But  I  had  my  mind 
and  my  heart  set  on  getting  those  fags — a  ciga- 
rette is  a  fag  to  every  British  soldier — to  my  des- 
tination with  me.  Indeed,  I  thought  they  would 
mean  more  to  the  laddies  out  there  than  I  could 
hope  to  do  myself! 

I  was  not  to  travel  alone.  My  tour  was  to  in- 
clude two  traveling  companions  of  distinction  and 
fame.  One  was  James  Hogge,  M.P.,  member  from 
East  Edinburgh,  who  was  eager,  as  so  many  mem- 
bers of  Parliament  were,  to  see  for  himself  how 
things  were  at  the  front.  James  Hogge  was  one 
of  the  members  most  liked  by  the  soldiers.  He 
had  worked  hard  for  them,  and  gained — and  well 
earned — much  fame  by  the  way  he  struggled  with 
the  matter  of  getting  the  right  sort  of  pensions 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  117 

for  the  laddies  who   were   offering  their  lives. 

The  other  distinguished  companion  I  was  to 
have  was  an  old  and  good  friend  of  mine,  the 
Reverend  George  Adam,  then  a  secretary  to  the 
Minister  of  Munitions.  He  lived  in  Ilford,  a 
suburb  of  London,  then,  but  is  now  in  Montreal, 
Canada.  I  was  glad  of  the  opportunity  to  travel 
with  both  these  men,  for  I  knew  that  one's  trav- 
eling companions,  on  such  a  tour,  were  of  the 
utmost  importance  in  determining  its  success  or 
failure,  and  I  could  not  have  chosen  a  better  pair, 
had  the  choice  been  left  to  me — which,  of  course, 
it  was  not. 

There  we  were,  you  see — the  Reverend  George 
Adam,  Harry  Lauder  and  James  Hogge,  M.P. 
And  no  sooner  did  the  soldiers  hear  of  the  com- 
bination than  our  tour  was  named  "  The  Rev- 
erend Harry  Lauder,  M.P.,  Tour"  was  what  we 
were  called!  And  that  absurd  name  stuck  to  us 
through  our  whole  journey,  in  France,  up  and 
down  the  battle  line,  and  until  we  came  home  to 
England  and  broke  up ! 


CHAPTER  XII 

UP  to  that  time  I  had  thought  I  knew  a  good 
deal  about  the  war.  I  had  had  much  news 
from  my  boy.  I  had  talked,  I  think,  to  as 
many  returned  soldiers  as  any  man  in  Britain. 
I  had  seen  much  of  the  backwash  and  the  wretched 
aftermath  of  war.  Ah,  yes,  I  thought  I  knew 
more  than  most  folk  did  of  what  war  meant !  But 
until  my  tour  began,  as  I  see  now,  easily  enough, 
I  knew  nothing — literally  nothing  at  all! 

There  are  towns  and  ports  in  Britain  that  are 
military  areas.  One  may  not  enter  them  except 
upon  business,  the  urgency  of  which  has  been 
established  to  the  satisfaction  of  the  military 
authorities.  One  must  have  a  permit  to  live  in 
them,  even  if  they  be  one's  home  town.  These 
towns  are  vital  to  the  war  and  its  successful 
prosecution. 

Until  one  has  seen  a  British  port  of  embarka- 
tion in  this  war  one  has  no  real  beginning,  even, 
of  a  conception  of  the  task  the  war  has  imposed 
upon  Britain.  It  was  so  with  me,  I  know,  and 
since  then  other  men  have  told  me  the  same  thing. 
There  the  army  begins  to  pour  into  the  funnel,  so 
to  speak,  that  leads  to  France  and  the  front. 
There  all  sorts  of  lines  are  brought  together,  all 

118 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  119 

sorts  of  scattered  activities  come  to  a  focus. 
There  is  incessant  activity,  day  and  night. 

It  was  from  Folkestone,  on  the  southeast  coast, 
that  the  Reverend  Harry  Lauder,  M.P.  Tour  was 
to  embark.  And  we  reached  Folkestone  on  June 
7,  1917. 

Folkestone,  in  time  of  peace,  was  one  of  the 
greatest  of  the  Southern  watering  places.  It  is  a 
lovely  spot.  Great  hotels  line  the  Leas,  a  glorious 
promenade,  along  the  top  of  chalk  cliffs,  that  looks 
out  over  the  Channel.  In  the  distance  one  fancies 
one  may  see  the  coast  of  France,  beyond  the  blue 
water. 

There  is  green  grass  everywhere  behind  the 
beach.  Folkestone  has  a  miniature  harbor,  that 
in  time  of  peace  gave  shelter  to  the  fishing  fleet 
and  to  the  channel  steamers  that  plied  to  and 
from  Boulogne,  in  France.  The  harbor  is  guarded 
by  stone  jetties.  It  has  been  greatly  enlarged  now 
— so  has  all  Folkestone,  for  that  matter.  But  I 
am  remembering  the  town  as  it  was  in  peace ! 

There  was  no  pleasanter  and  kindlier  resort 
along  that  coast.  The  beach  was  wonderful,  and 
all  summer  long  it  attracted  bathers  and  children 
at  play.  Bathing  machines  lined  the  beach,  of 
course,  within  the  limits  of  the  town ;  those  queer, 
old,  clumsy  looking  wagons,  with  a  dressing  cabin 
on  wheels,  that  were  drawn  up  and  down  accord- 
ing to  the  tide,  so  that  bathers  might  enter  the 
water  from  them  directly.  There,  as  in  most  Brit- 


120  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

ish  towns,  women  bathed  at  one  part  of  the  beach, 
men  at  the  other,  and  all  in  the  most  decorous 
and  modest  of  costumes. 

But  at  Folkestone,  in  the  old  days  of  peace, 
about  a  mile  from  the  town  limits,  there  was 
another  stretch  of  beach  where  all  the  gay  folk 
bathed — men  and  women  together.  And  there  the 
costumes  were  such  as  might  be  seen  at  Deauville 
or  Ostend,  Etretat  or  Trouville.  Highly  they 
scandalized  the  good  folk  of  Folkestone,  to  be  sure 
— but  little  was  said,  and  nothing  was  done,  for, 
after  all  those  were  the  folk  who  spent  the  money ! 
They  dressed  in  white  tents  that  gleamed  against 
the  sea,  and  a  pretty  splash  of  color  they  made 
on  a  bright  day  for  the  soberer  folk  to  go  and 
watch,  as  they  sat  on  the  low  chalk  cliffs  above 
them! 

Gone — gone !  Such  days  have  passed  for  Folke- 
stone! They  will  no  doubt  come  again — but 
when?  When? 

June  the  seventh !  Folkestone  should  have  been 
gay  for  the  beginning  of  the  onset  of  summer 
visitors.  Sea  bathing  should  just  have  been  be- 
ginning to  be  attractive,  as  the  sun  warmed  the 
sea  and  the  beach.  But  when  we  reached  the  town 
war  was  over  all.  Men  in  uniform  were  every- 
where. Warships  lay  outside  the  harbor.  Khaki 
and  guns,  men  trudging  along,  bearing  the  bur- 
dens of  war,  motor  trucks,  rushing  ponderously 
along,  carrying  ammunition  and  food,  messengers 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  ,    121 

on  motorcycles,  sounding  to  all  traffic  that  might 
be  in  the  way  the  clamorous  summons  to  clear  the 
path — those  were  the  sights  we  saw ! 

How  hopelessly  confused  it  all  seemed !  I  could 
not  believe  that  there  was  order  in  the  chaos  that 
I  saw.  But  that  was  because  the  key  to  all  that 
bewildering  activity  was  not  in  my  possession. 

Every  man  had  his  appointed  task.  He  was  a 
cog  in  the  greatest  machine  the  world  has  ever 
seen.  He  knew  just  what  he  was  to  do,  and  how 
much  time  had  been  allowed  for  the  performance 
of  his  task.  It  was  assumed  he  would  not  fail. 
The  British  army  makes  that  assumption,  and  it 
is  warranted. 

I  hear  praise,  even  from  men  who  hate  the  Hun 
as  I  hate  him,  for  the  superb  military  organiza- 
tion of  the  German  army.  They  say  the  Kaiser's 
people  may  well  take  pride  in  that.  But  I  say  that 
I  am  prouder  of  what  Britain  and  the  new  British 
army  that  has  come  into  being  since  this  war  be- 
gan have  done  than  any  German  has  a  right  to 
be !  They  spent  forty-four  years  in  making  ready 
for  a  war  they  knew  they  meant,  some  day,  to 
fight.  We  had  not  had,  that  day  that  I  first  saw 
our  machine  really  functioning,  as  many  months 
for  preparation  as  they  had  had  years.  And  yet 
we  were  doing  our  part. 

We  had  had  to  build  and  prepare  while  we 
helped  our  ally,  France,  to  hold  off  that  gray 
horde  that  had  swept  down  so  treacherously 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 


through  Belgium  from  the  north  and  east.  It  was 
as  if  we  had  organized  and  trained  and  equipped 
a  fire  brigade  while  the  fire  was  burning,  and  while 
our  first  devoted  fighters  sought  to  keep  it  in  check 
with  water  buckets.  And  they  did!  They  did! 
The  water  buckets  served  while  the  hose  was 
made,  and  the  mains  were  laid,  and  the  hydrants 
set  in  place,  and  the  trained  firemen  were  made 
ready  to  take  up  the  task. 

And,  now  that  I  had  come  to  Folkestone,  now 
that  I  was  seeing  the  results  of  all  the  labor  that 
had  been  performed,  the  effect  of  all  the  prodigies 
of  organization,  I  began  to  know  what  Lord 
Kitchener  and  those  who  had  worked  with  him 
had  done.  System  ruled  everything  at  Folke- 
stone. Nothing,  it  seeemd  to  me,  as  officers  ex- 
plained as  much  as  they  properly  could,  had  been 
left  to  chance.  Here  was  order  indeed. 

In  the  air  above  us  airplanes  flew  to  and  fro. 
They  circled  about  like  great,  watchful  hawks. 
They  looped  and  whirled  around,  cutting  this  way 
and  that,  circling  always.  And  I  knew  that,  as 
they  flew  about  outside  the  harbor  the  men  in  them 
were  never  off  their  guard;  that  they  were  peer- 
ing down,  watching  every  moment  for  the  first 
trace  of  a  submarine  that  might  have  crept 
through  the  more  remote  defenses  of  the  Channel. 
Let  a  submarine  appear  —  its  shrift  would  be  short 
indeed  ! 

There,  above,  waited  the  airplanes.    And  on  the 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 


surface  of  the  sea  sinister  destroyers  darted 
about  as  watchful  as  the  flyers  above,  ready  for 
any  emergency  that  might  arise.  I  have  no  doubt 
that  submarines  of  our  own  lurked  below,  waiting, 
too,  to  do  their  part.  But  those,  if  any  there 
were,  I  did  not  see.  And  one  asks  no  questions 
at  a  place  like  Folkestone.  I  was  glad  of  any  in- 
formation an  officer  might  voluntarily  give  me. 
But  it  was  not  for  me  or  any  other  loyal  Briton  to 
put  him  in  the  position  of  having  to  refuse  to  an- 
swer. 

Soon  a  great  transport  was  pointed  out  to  me, 
lying  beside  the  jetty.  Gangplanks  were  down, 
and  up  them  streams  of  men  in  khaki  moved  end- 
lessly. Up  they  went,  in  an  endless  brown  river, 
to  disappear  into  the  ship.  The  whole  ship  was  a 
very  hive  of  activity.  Not  only  men  were  going 
aboard,  but  supplies  of  every  sort;  boxes  of  am- 
munition, stores,  food.  And  I  understood,  and 
was  presently  to  see,  that  beyond  her  sides  there 
was  the  same  ordered  scene  as  prevailed  on  shore. 
Every  man  knew  his  task;  the  stowing  away  of 
everything  that  was  being  carried  aboard  was  be- 
ing carried  out  systematically  and  with  the  utmost 
possible  economy  of  time  and  effort. 

"  That's  the  ship  you  will  cross  the  Channel 
on,"  I  was  told.  And  I  regarded  her  with  a  new 
interest.  I  do  not  know  what  part  she  had  been 
wont  to  play  in  time  of  peace  ;  what  useful,  pleas- 
ant journeys  it  had  been  her  part  to  complete.  I 


124  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

only  knew  that  she  was  to  carry  me  to  France,  and 
to  the  place  where  my  heart  was  and  for  a  long 
time  had  been.  Me — and  two  thousand  men  who 
were  to  be  of  real  use  over  there ! 

We  were  nearly  the  last  to  go  on  board.  We 
found  the  decks  swarming  with  men.  Ah,  the 
braw  laddies !  They  smoked  and  they  laughed  as 
they  settled  themselves  for  the  trip.  Never  a  one 
looked  as  though  he  might  be  sorry  to  be  there. 
They  were  leaving  behind  them  all  the  good 
things,  all  the  pleasant  things,  of  life  as,  in  time 
of  peace,  every  one  of  them  had  learned  to  live  it 
and  to  know  it.  Long,  long  since  had  the  last 
illusion  faded  of  the  old  days  when  war  had 
seemed  a  thing  of  pomp  and  circumstance  and 
glory. 

They  knew  well,  those  boys,  what  it  was  they 
faced.  Hard,  grinding  work  they  could  look  for- 
ward to  doing ;  such  work  as  few  of  them  had  ever 
known  in  the  old  days.  Death  and  wounds  they 
could  reckon  upon  as  the  portion  of  just  about  so 
many  of  them.  There  would  be  bitter  cold,  later, 
in  the  trenches,  and  mud,  and  standing  for  hours 
in  icy  mud  and  water.  There  would  be  hard  fare, 
and  scanty,  sometimes,  when  things  went  wrong. 
There  would  be  gas  attacks,  and  the  bursting  of 
shells  about  them  with  all  sorts  of  poisons  in  them. 
Always  there  would  be  the  deadliest  perils  of 
these  perilous  days. 

But  they  sang  as  they  set  out  upon  the  great 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  125 

adventure  of  their  lives.  They  smiled  and 
laughed.  They  cheered  me,  so  that  the  tears 
started  from  my  eyes,  when  they  saw  me,  and 
they  called  the  gayest  of  gay  greetings,  though 
they  knew  that  I  was  going  only  for  a  little  while, 
and  that  many  of  them  had  set  foot  on  British  soil 
for  the  last  time.  The  steady  babble  of  their 
voices  came  to  our  ears,  and  they  swarmed  below 
us  like  ants  as  they  disposed  themselves  about  the 
decks,  and  made  the  most  of  the  scanty  space  that 
was  allowed  for  them.  The  trip  was  to  be  short, 
of  course ;  there  were  too  few  ships,  and  the  prob- 
lems of  convoy  were  too  great,  to  make  it  possible 
to  make  the  voyage  a  comfortable  one.  It  was  a 
case  of  getting  them  over  as  might  best  be  ar- 
ranged. 

A  word  of  command  rang  out  and  was  passed 
around  by  officers  and  non  corns. 

1  'Life  belts  must  be  put  on  before  the  ship 
sails!" 

That  simple  order  brought  home  the  grim  facts 
of  war  at  that  moment  as  scarcely  anything  else 
could  have  done.  Here  was  a  grim  warning  of 
the  peril  that  lurked  outside.  Everywhere  men 
were  scurrying  to  obey — I  among  the  rest.  The 
order  applied  as  much  to  us  civilians  as  it  did  to 
any  of  the  soldiers.  And  my  belt  did  not  fit,  and 
was  hard,  extremely  hard,  for  me  to  don.  I  could 
no  manage  it  at  all  by  myself,  but  Adam  and 
Hogge  had  had  an  easier  time  with  theirs,  and 


126  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

they  came  to  my  help.  Among  us  we  got  mine  on, 
and  Hogge  stood  off,  and  looked  at  me,  and 
smiled. 

"An  extraordinary  effect,  Harry!"  he  said, 
with  a  smile.  "I  declare — it  gives  you  the  most 
charming  embonpoint!" 

I  had  my  doubts  about  his  use  of  the  word 
charming.  I  know  that  I  should  not  have  cared 
to  have  anyone  judge  of  my  looks  from  a  picture 
taken  as  I  looked  then,  had  one  been  taken. 

But  it  was  not  a  time  for  such  thoughts.  For  a 
civilian,  especially,  and  one  not  used  to  journeys 
in  such  times  as  these,  there  is  a  thrill  and  a  solem- 
nity about  the  donning  of  a  life  preserver.  I  felt 
that  I  was  indeed,  it  might  be,  taking  a  risk  in 
making  this  journey,  and  it  was  an  awesome 
thought  that  I,  too,  might  have  seen  my  native 
land  for  the  last  time,  and  said  a  real  good-by  to 
those  whom  I  had  left  behind  me. 

Now  we  cast  off,  and  began  to  move,  and  a  thrill 
ran  through  me  such  as  I  had  never  known  before 
in  all  my  life.  I  went  to  the  rail  as  we  turned  our 
nose  toward  the  open  sea.  A  destroyer  was 
ahead,  another  was  beside  us,  others  rode  steadily 
along  on  either  side.  It  was  the  most  reassuring 
of  sights  to  see  them.  They  looked  so  business 
like,  so  capable.  I  could  not  imagine  a  Hun  sub- 
marine as  able  to  evade  their  watchfulness.  And 
moreover,  there  were  the  watchful  man  birds 
above  us,  the  circling  airplanes,  that  could  make 


'A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  127 

out,  so  much  better  than  could  any  lookout  on  a 
ship,  the  first  trace  of  the  presence  of  a  tin  fish. 
No — I  was  not  afraid!  I  trusted  in  the  British 
navy,  which  had  guarded  the  sea  lane  so  well  that 
not  a  man  had  lost  his  life  as  the  result  of  a  Hun 
attack,  although  many  millions  had  gone  back 
and  forth  to  France  since  the  beginning  of  the 
war. 

I  did  not  stay  with  my  own  party.  I  preferred 
to  move  about  among  the  Soldiers.  I  was  deeply 
interested  in  them,  as  I  have  always  been.  And 
I  wanted  to  make  friends  among  them,  and  see 
how  they  felt. 

"Lor'  lumme — its  old  'Arry  Lauder!"  said  one 
cockney.  "God  bless  you,  'Arry — many's  the 
time  I've  sung  with  you  in  the  'alls.  It's  good  to 
see  you  with  us ! " 

And  so  I  was  greeted  everywhere.  Man  after 
man  crowded  around  me  to  shake  hands.  It 
brought  a  lump  into  my  throat  to  be  greeted  so, 
and  it  made  me  more  than  ever  glad  that  the  mili- 
tary authorities  had  been  able  to  see  their  way  to 
grant  my  request.  It  confirmed  my  belief  that  I 
was  going  where  I  might  be  really  useful  to  the 
men  who  were  ready  and  willing  to  make  the 
greatest  of  all  sacrifices  in  the  cause  so  close  to  all 
our  hearts. 

When  I  first  went  aboard  the  transport  I  picked 
up  a  little  gold  stripe.  It  was  one  of  those  men 
wear  who  have  been  wounded,  as  a  badge  of 


128  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

honor.  I  hoped  I  might  be  able  to  find  the  man 
who  had  lost  it,  and  return  it  to  him.  But  none 
of  them  claimed  it,  and  I  have  kept  it,  to  this  day, 
as  a  souvenir  of  that  voyage. 

It  was  easy  for  them  to  know  me.  I  wore  my 
kilt  and  my  cap,  and  my  knife  in  my  stocking,  as 
I  have  always  done,  on  the  stage,  and  nearly  al- 
ways off  it  as  well.  And  so  they  recognized  me 
without  difficulty.  And  never  a  one  called  me  any- 
thing but  Harry — except  when  it  was  'Arry!  I 
think  I  would  be  much  affronted  if  ever  a  British 
soldier  called  me  Mr.  Lauder.  I  don't  know — be- 
cause not  one  of  them  ever  did,  and  I  hope  none 
ever  will ! 

They  told  me  that  there  were  men  from  the 
Highlands  on  board,  and  I  went  looking  for  them, 
and  found  them  after  a  time,  though  going  about 
that  ship,  so  crowded  she  was,  was  no  easy  mat- 
ter. They  were  Gordon  Highlanders,  mostly,  I 
found,  and  they  were  glad  to  see  me,  and  made  me 
welcome,  and  I  had  a  pipe  with  them,  and  a  good 
talk. 

Many  of  them  were  going  back,  after  having 
been  at  home,  recuperating  from  wounds.  And 
they  and  the  new  men  too  were  all  eager  and 
anxious  to  be  put  there  and  at  work. 

"Gie  us  a  chance  at  the  Huns — it's  all  we're 
asking,"  said  one  of  a  new  draft.  "They're  tell- 
ing us  they  don't  like  the  sight  of  our  kilts,  Harry, 
and  that  a  Hun's  got  less  stomach  for  the  cold 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 


steel  of  a  bayonet  than  for  anything  else  on  earth. 
Weel  —  we're  carrying  a  dose  of  it  for  them!" 

And  the  men  who  had  been  out  before,  and  were 
taking  back  with  them  the  scars  they  had  earned, 
were  just  as  anxious  as  the  rest.  That  was  the 
spirit  of  every  man  on  board.  They  did  not  like 
war  as  war,  but  they  knew  that  this  was  a  war 
that  must  be  fought  to  the  finish,  and  never  a  man 
of  them  wanted  peace  to  come  until  Fritz  had 
learned  his  lesson  to  the  bottom  of  the  last  grim 
page. 

I  never  heard  a  word  of  the  danger  of  meeting 
a  submarine.  The  idea  that  one  might  send  a  tor- 
pedo after  us  popped  into  my  mind  once  or  twice, 
but  when  it  did  I  looked  out  at  the  destroyers, 
guarding  us,  and  the  airplanes  above,  and  I  felt 
as  safe  as  if  I  had  been  in  bed  in  my  wee  hoose  at 
Dunoon.  It  was  a  true  highway  of  war  that  those 
whippets  of  the  sea  had  made  the  Channel  cross- 
ing. 

Ahm,  but  I  was  proud  that  day  of  the  British 
navy!  It  is  a  great  task  that  it  has  performed, 
and  nobly  it  has  done  it.  And  it  was  proud  and 
glad  I  was  again  when  we  sighted  land,  as  we  soon 
did,  and  I  knew  that  I  was  gazing,  for  the  first 
time  since  war  had  been  declared,  upon  the  shores 
of  our  great  ally,  France.  It  was  the  great  day 
and  the  proud  day  and  the  happy  day  for  me  ! 

I  was  near  the  realizing  of  an  old  dream  I  had 
often  had.  I  was  with  the  soldiers  who  had  my 


130  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

love  and  my  devotion,  and  I  was  coming  to  France 
— the  France  that  every  Scotchman  learns  to  love 
at  his  mother's  breast. 

A  stir  ran  through  the  men.  Orders  began  to 
fly,  and  I  went  back  to  my  place  and  my  party. 
Soon  we  would  be  ashore,  and  I  would  be  in  the 
way  of  beginning  the  work  I  had  come  to  do. 


".-••-....'"  ...^'.  -'  '\ 

J\F*ifmmuFV 


Harry  Lauder  preserves  the  bonnet  of  his  son, 
brought  to  him  from  where  the  lad  fell.  "  The 
memory  of  his  boy,  it  is  almost  his  religion." 


C.\ 


A  tatter  of  plaid  of  the  Black  Watch  on  a  wire  of  a  German 
entanglement  barely  suggests  the  hell  the  Scotch  troops  have 
gone  through. 


CHAPTER  XHI 

BOULOGNE! 
Like  Folkestone,  Boulogne,  in  happier 
times,  had  been  a  watering  place,  less  fash- 
ionable than  some  on  the  French  coast,  but  the 
pleasant  resort  of  many  in  search  of  health  and 
pleasure.  And  like  Folkestone  it  had  suffered  the 
blight  of  war.  The  war  had  laid  its  heavy  hand 
upon  the  port.  It  ruled  everything ;  it  was  omni- 
present. From  the  moment  when  we  came  into 
full  view  of  the  harbor  it  was  impossible  to  think 
of  anything  else. 

Folkestone  had  made  me  think  of  the  mouth  of 
a  great  funnel,  into  which  all  broad  Britain  had 
been  pouring  men  and  guns  and  all  the  manifold 
supplies  and  stores  of  modern  war.  And  the  trip 
across  the  narrow,  well  guarded  lane  in  the  Chan- 
nel had  been  like  the  pouring  of  water  through  the 
neck  of  that  same  funnel.  Here  in  Boulogne  was 
the  opening.  Here  the  stream  of  men  and  sup- 
plies spread  out  to  begin  its  orderly,  irresistible 
flow  to  the  front.  All  of  northern  France  and 
Belgium  lay  before  that  stream;  it  had  to  cover 
all  the  great  length  of  the  British  front.  Not 
from  Boulogne  alone,  of  course;  I  knew  of  Dun- 

131 


132  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

kirk  and  Calais,  and  guessed  at  other  ports. 
There  were  other  funnels,  and  into  all  of  them, 
day  after  day,  Britain  was  pouring  her  tribute; 
through  all  of  them  she  was  offering  her  sacrifice, 
to  be  laid  upon  the  altar  of  strife. 

Here,  much  more  than  at  Folkestone,  as  it 
chanced,  I  saw  at  once  another  thing.  There  was 
a  double  funnel.  The  stream  ran  both  ways. 
For,  as  we  steamed  into  Boulogne,  a  ship  was 
coming  out — a  ship  with  a  grim  and  tragic  burden. 
She  was  one  of  our  hospital  ships.  But  she  was 
guarded  as  carefully  by  destroyers  and  aircraft  as 
our  transport  had  been.  The  Eed  Cross  meant 
nothing  to  the  Hun — except,  perhaps,  a  shining 
target.  Ship  after  ship  that  bore  that  symbol  of 
mercy  and  of  pain  had  been  sunk.  No  longer  did 
our  navy  dare  to  trust  the  Red  Cross.  It  took 
every  precaution  it  could  take  to  protect  the  poor 
fellows  who  were  going  home  to  Blighty. 

As  we  made  our  way  slowly  in,  through  the 
crowded  harbor,  full  of  transports,  of  ammunition 
ships,  of  food  carriers,  of  destroyers  and  small 
naval  craft  of  all  sorts,  I  began  to  be  able  to  see 
more  and  more  of  what  was  afoot  ashore.  It  was 
near  noon;  the  day  that  had  been  chosen  for  my 
arrival  in  France  was  one  of  brilliant  sunshine 
and  a  cloudless  sky.  And  my  eyes  were  drawn  to 
other  hospital  ships  that  were  waiting  at  the 
docks.  Motor  ambulances  came  dashing  up,  one 
after  the  other,  in  what  seemed  to  me  to  be  an  end- 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  133 

less  stream.  The  pity  of  that  sight !  It  was  as  if 
I  could  peer  through  the  intervening  space  and  see 
the  bandaged  heads,  the  places  where  limbs  had 
been,  the  steadfast  gaze  of  the  boys  who  were 
being  carried  up  in  stretchers.  They  had  done 
their  task,  a  great  number  of  them ;  they  had  given 
all  that  God  would  let  them  give  to  King  and 
country.  Life  was  left  to  them,  to  be  sure ;  most 
of  these  boys  were  sure  to  live. 

But  to  what  maimed  and  incomplete  lives  were 
they  doomed !  The  thousands  who  would  be  crip- 
ples always — blind,  some  of  them,  and  helpless, 
dependent  upon  what  others  might  choose  or  be 
able  to  do  for  them.  It  was  then,  in  that  moment, 
that  an  idea  was  born,  vaguely,  in  my  mind,  of 
which  I  shall  have  much  more  to  say  later. 

There  was  beauty  in  that  harbor  of  Boulogne. 
The  sun  gleamed  against  the  chalk  cliffs.  It 
caught  the  wings  of  airplanes,  flying  high  above 
us.  But  there  was  little  of  beauty  in  my  mind's 
eye.  That  could  see  through  the  surface  beauty 
of  the  scene  and  of  the  day  to  the  grim,  stark  ugli- 
ness of  war  that  lay  beneath. 

I  saw  the  ordered  piles  of  boxes  and  supplies, 
the  bright  guns,  with  the  sun  reflected  from  their 
barrels,  dulled  though  these  were  to  prevent  that 
very  thing.  And  I  thought  of  the  waste  that  was 
involved — of  how  all  this  vast  product  of  industry 
was  destined  to  be  destroyed,  as  swiftly  as  might 
be,  bringing  no  useful  accomplishment  with  its 


134.  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

destruction — save,  of  course,  that  accomplishment 
which  must  be  completed  before  any  useful  thing 
may  be  done  again  in  this  world. 

Then  we  went  ashore,  and  I  could  scarcely  be- 
lieve that  we  were  indeed  in  France,  that  land 
which,  friends  though  our  nations  are,  is  at  heart 
and  in  spirit  so  different  from  my  own  country. 
Boulogne  had  ceased  to  be  French,  indeed.  The 
port  was  like  a  bit  of  Britain  picked  up,  carried 
across  the  Channel  and  transplanted  successfully 
to  a  new  resting-place. 

English  was  spoken  everywhere — and  much  of 
it  was  the  English  of  the  cockney,  innocent  of  the 
aitch,  and  redolent  of  that  strange  tongue.  But  it 
is  no  for  me,  a  Scot,  to  speak  of  how  any  other 
man  uses  the  King's  English !  Well  I  ken  it !  It 
was  good  to  hear  it — had  there  been  a  thought  in 
my  mind  of  being  homesick,  it  would  quickly  have 
been  dispelled.  The  streets  rang  to  the  tread  of 
British  soldiers;  our  uniform  was  everywhere. 
There  were  Frenchmen,  too ;  they  were  attached, 
many  of  them,  for  one  reason  and  another,  to  the 
British  forces.  But  most  of  them  spoke  English 
too. 

I  had  most  care  about  the  unloading  of  my 
cigarettes.  It  was  a  point  of  honor  with  me,  by 
now,  after  the  way  my  friends  had  joked  me  about 
them,  to  see  that  every  last  one  of  the  "fags"  I 
had  brought  with  me  reached  a  British  Tommy.  So 
to  them  I  gave  iny  first  care.  Then  I  saw  to  the 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  135 

unloading  of  my  wee  piano,  and,  having  done  so, 
was  free  to  go  with  the  other  members  of  the 
Reverend  Harry  Lander,  M.P.,  Tour  to  the  small 
hotel  that  was  to  be  headquarters  for  all  of  us  in 
Boulogne. 

Arrangements  had  to  be  made  for  my  debut  in 
France,  and  I  can  tell  you  that  no  professional  en- 
gagement I  have  ever  filled  ever  gave  me  half  so 
much  concern  as  this  one!  I  have  sung  before 
many  strange  audiences,  in  all  parts  of  the  world, 
or  nearly  all.  I  have  sung  for  folk  who  had  no 
idea  of  what  to  expect  from  me,  and  have  known 
that  I  must  be  at  work  from  the  moment  of  my 
first  appearance  on  the  stage  to  win  them.  But 
these  audiences  that  I  was  to  face  here  in  France 
gave  me  more  thought  than  any  of  them.  I  had  so 
great  a  reason  for  wanting  to  suceed  with 
them! 

And  here,  ye  ken,  I  faced  conditions  that  were 
harder  than  had  ever  fallen  to  my  lot.  I  was  not 
to  have,  most  of  the  time,  even  the  military  thea- 
ters that  had,  in  some  cases,  been  built  for  the 
men  behind  the  lines,  where  many  actors  and,  in- 
deed, whole  companies,  from  home  had  been  ap- 
pearing. I  could  make  no  changes  of  costume. 
I  would  have  no  orchestra.  Part  of  the  time  I 
would  have  my  wee  piano,  but  I  reckoned  on  going 
to  places  where  even  that  sma'  thing  could  no  fol- 
low me. 

But  I  had  a  good  manager — the  British  army, 


136  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

no  less !  It  was  the  army  that  had  arranged  my 
booking.  We  were  not  left  alone,  not  for  a  min- 
ute. I  would  not  have  you  think  that  we  were  left 
to  go  around  on  our  own,  and  as  we  pleased. 
Far  from  it!  No  sooner  had  we  landed  than 
Captain  Eoberts,  D.S.O.,  told  me,  in  a  brief,  sol- 
dierly way,  that  was  also  extremely  businesslike, 
what  sort  of  plans  had  been  made  for  us. 

"We  have  a  number  of  big  hospitals  here,"  he 
said.  "This  is  one  of  the  important  British 
bases,  as  you  know,  and  it  is  one  of  those  where 
many  of  our  men  are  treated  before  they  are  sent 
home.  So,  since  you  are  here,  we  thought  you 
would  want  to  give  your  first  concerts  to  the 
wounded  men  here." 

So  I  learned  that  the  opening  of  what  you  might 
call  my  engagement  in  the  trenches  was  to  be  in 
hospitals.  That  was  not  new  to  me,  and  yet  I  was 
to  find  that  there  was  a  difference  between  a  base 
hospital  in  Prance  and  the  sort  of  hospitals  I  had 
seen  so  often  at  home. 

Nothing,  indeed,  was  left  to  us.  After  Captain 
Eoberts  had  explained  matters,  we  met  Captain 
Godfrey,  who  was  to  travel  with  us,  and  be  our 
guide,  our  military  mentor  and  our  ruler.  We 
understood  that  we  must  place  ourselves  under 
him,  and  under  military  discipline.  No  Tommy, 
indeed,  was  more  under  discipline  than  we  had  to 
be.  But  we  did  not  chafe,  civilians  though  we 
were.  When  you  see  the  British  army  at  work 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  137 

nothing  is  further  from  your  thoughts  than  to 
criticize  or  to  offer  any  suggestions.  It  knows  its 
business,  and  does  it,  quietly  and  without  fuss. 
But  even  Fritz  has  learned  to  be  chary  of  getting 
in  the  way  when  the  British  army  has  made  up  its 
mind — and  that  is  what  he  is  there  for,  though  I've 
no  doubt  that  Fritz  himself  would  give  a  pretty 
penny  to  be  at  home  again,  with  peace  de- 
clared. 

Captain  Godfrey,  absolute  though  his  power 
over  us  was — he  could  have  ordered  us  all  home 
at  a  moment's  notice — turned  out  to  be  a  delight- 
ful young  officer,  who  did  everything  in  his  power 
to  make  our  way  smooth  and  pleasant,  and  who 
was  certainly  as  good  a  manager  as  I  ever  had  or 
ever  expect  to  have.  He  entered  into  the  spirit  of 
our  tour,  and  it  was  plain  to  see  that  it  would  be 
a  success  from  start  to  finish  if  it  were  within  his 
power  to  make  it  so.  He  liked  to  call  himself  my 
manager,  and  took  a  great  delight,  indeed,  in  the 
whole  experience.  Well,  it  was  a  change  for  him, 
no  doubt! 

I  had  brought  a  piano  with  me,  but  no  accom- 
panist. That  was  not  an  oversight ;  it  was  a  mat- 
ter of  deliberate  choice.  I  had  been  told,  before  I 
left  home,  that  I  would  have  no  difficulty  in  finding 
some  one  among  the  soldiers  to  accompany  me. 
And  that  was  true,  as  I  soon  found.  In  fact,  as 
I  was  to  learn  later,  I  could  have  recruited  a  full 
orchestra  among  the  Tommies,  and  I  would  have 


138  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

had  in  my  band,  too,  musicians  of  fame  and  great 
ability,  far  above  the  average  theater  orchestra. 
Oh,  you  must  go  to  France  to  learn  how  every  art 
and  craft  in  Britain  has  done  its  part ! 

Aye,  every  sort  of  artist  and  artisan,  men  of 
every  profession  and  trade,  can  be  found  in  the 
British  army.  It  has  taken  them  all,  like  some 
great  melting  pot,  and  made  them  soldiers.  I 
think,  indeed,  there  is  no  calling  that  you  could 
name  that  would  not  yield  you  a  master  hand  from 
the  ranks  of  the  British  army.  And  I  am  not 
talking  of  the  officers  alone,  but  of  the  great  mass 
of  Tommies.  And  so  when  I  told  Captain  God- 
frey I  would  be  needing  a  good  pianist  to  play  my 
accompaniments,  he  just  smiled. 

" Right  you  are!"  he  said.  "We'll  turn  one 
up  for  you  in  no  time!" 

He  had  no  doubts  at  all,  and  he  was  right.  They 
found  a  lad  called  Johnson,  a  Yorkshireman,  in  a 
convalescent  ward  of  one  of  the  big  hospitals. 
He  was  recovering  from  an  illness  he  had  incurred 
in  the  trenches,  and  was  not  quite  ready  to  go 
back  to  active  duty.  But  he  was  well  enough  to 
play  for  me,  and  delighted  when  he  heard  he  might 
get  the  assignment.  He  was  nervous  lest  he 
should  not  please  me,  and  feared  I  might  ask  for 
another  man.  But  when  I  ran  over  with  him  the 
songs  I  meant  to  sing  I  found  he  played  the  piano 
very  well  indeed,  and  had  a  knack  for  accompany- 
ing, too.  There  are  good  pianists,  soloists,  who 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  139 

are  not  good  accompanists;  it  takes  more  than 
just  the  ability  to  play  the  piano  to  work  with  a 
singer,  and  especially  with  a  singer  like  me.  It 
is  no  straight  ahead  singing  I  do  always,  as  you 
ken,  perhaps. 

But  I  saw  at  once  that  Johnson  and  I  would 
get  along  fine  together,  so  everyone  was  pleased, 
and  I  went  on  and  made  my  preparations  with  him 
for  my  first  concert.  That  was  to  be  in  the  Bou- 
logne Casino — center  of  the  gayety  of  the  resort 
in  the  old  days,  but  now,  for  a  long  time,  turned 
into  a  base  hospital. 

They  had  played  for  high  stakes  there  in  the 
old  days  before  the  war.  Thousands  of  dollars 
had  changed  hands  in  an  hour  there.  But  they 
were  playing  for  higher  stakes  now !  They  were 
playing  for  the  lives  and  the  health  of  men,  and 
the  hearts  of  the  women  at  home  in  Britain  who 
were  bound  up  with  them.  In  the  old  days  men 
had  staked  their  money  against  the  turn  of  a  card 
or  the  roll  of  the  wheel.  But  now  it  was  with 
Death  they  staked — and  it  was  a  mightier  game 
than  those  old  walls  had  ever  seen  before. 

The  largest  ward  of  the  hospital  was  in  what 
had  been  the  Baccarat  room,  and  it  was  there  I 
held  my  first  concert  of  the  trench  engagement. 
When  I  appeared  it  was  packed  full.  There  were 
men  on  cots,  lying  still  and  helpless,  bandaged  to 
their  very  eyes.  Some  came  limping  in  on  their 
crutches;  some  were  rolled  in  in  chairs.  It  was 


140  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

a  sad  scene  and  an  impressive  one,  and  it  went  to 
my  haart  when  I  thought  that  my  own  poor  laddie 
must  have  lain  in  just  such  a  room — in  this  very 
one,  perhaps.  He  had  suffered  as  these  men  were 
suffering,  and  he  had  died — as  some  of  these  men 
for  whom  I  was  to  sing  would  die.  For  there 
were  men  here  who  would  be  patched  up,  pres- 
ently, and  would  go  back.  And  for  them  there 
might  be  a  next  time — a  next  time  when  they 
would  need  no  hospital. 

There  was  one  thing  about  the  place  I  liked. 
It  was  so  clean  and  white  and  spotless.  All  the 
garish  display,  the  paint  and  tawdry  finery,  of  the 
old  gambling  days,  had  gKxne.  It  was  restful, 
now,  and  though  there  was  the  hospital  smell,  it 
was  a  clean  smell.  And  the  men  looked  as  though 
they  had  wonderful  care.  Indeed,  I  knew  they 
had  that;  I  knew  that  everything  that  could  be 
done  to  ease  their  state  was  being  done.  And 
every  face  I  saw  was  brave  and  cheerful,  though 
the  skin  of  many  and  many  a  lad  was  stretched 
tight  over  his  bones  with  the  pain  he  had  known, 
and  there  was  a  look  in  their  eyes,  a  look  with 
no  repining  in  it,  or  complaint,  but  with  the  evi- 
dences of  a  terrible  pain,  bravely  suffered,  that 
sent  the  tears  starting  to  my  eyes  more  than 
once. 

It  was  much  as  it  had  been  in  the  many  hospi- 
tals I  had  visited  in  Britain,  and  yet  it  was  differ- 
ent, too.  I  felt  that  I  was  really  at  the  front. 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  141 

Later  I  came  to  realize  how  far  from  the  real  front 
I  actually  was  at  Boulogne,  but  then  I  knew  no 
better. 

I  had  chosen  my  programme  carefully.  It  was 
made  up  of  songs  altogether.  I  had  had  enough 
experience  in  hospitals  and  camps  by  now  to  have 
learned  what  soldiers  liked  best,  and  I  had  no 
doubt  at  all  that  it  was  just  songs.  And  best  of 
all  they  liked  the  old  love  songs,  and  the  old  songs 
of  Scotland — tender,  crooning  melodies,  that 
would  help  to  carry  them  back,  in  memory,  to  their 
hames  and,  if  they  had  them,  to  the  lassies  of  their 
dreams.  It  was  no  sad,  lugubrious  songs  they 
wanted.  But  a  note  of  wistful  tenderness  they 
liked.  That  was  true  of  sick  and  wounded,  and  of 
the  hale  and  hearty  too — and  it  showed  that, 
though  they  were  soldiers,  they  were  just  humans 
like  the  rest  of  us,  for  all  the  great  and  super- 
human things  they  ha'  done  out  there  in 
France. 

Not  every  actor  and  artist  who  has  tried  to  help 
in  the  hospitals  has  fully  understood  the  men  he 
or  she  wanted  to  please.  They  meant  well,  every 
one,  but  some  were  a  wee  bit  unfortunate  in  the 
way  they  went  to  work.  There  is  a  story  that  is 
told  of  one  of  our  really  great  serious  actors.  He 
is  serious  minded,  always,  on  the  stage  and  off, 
and  very,  very  dignified.  But  some  folk  went  to 
him  and  asked  him  would  he  no  do  his  bit  to  cheer 
up  the  puir  laddies  in  a  hospital  ? 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 


He  never  thought  of  refusing  —  and  I  would  no 
have  you  think  I  am  sneering  at  the  man  !  His  in- 
tentions were  of  the  best. 

"Of  course,  I  do  not  sing  or  dance,"  he  said, 
drawing  down  his  lip.  And  the  look  in  his  eyes 
showed  what  he  thought  of  such  of  us  as  had  de- 
scended to  such  low  ways  of  pleasing  the  public 
that  paid  to  see  us  and  to  hear  us  :  "  But  I  shall 
very  gladly  do  something  to  bring  a  little  diver- 
sion into  the  sad  lives  of  the  poor  boys  in  the  hos- 
pitals." 

It  was  a  stretcher  audience  that  he  had.  That 
means  a  lot  of  boys  who  had  to  lie  in  bed  to  hear 
him.  They  needed  cheering.  And  that  great 
actor,  with  all  his  good  intentions  could  think  of 
nothing  more  fitting  than  to  stand  up  before 
them  and  begin  to  recite,  in  a  sad,  elocu- 
tionary tone,  Longfellow's  "The  Wreck  of  the 
Hesperus!" 

He  went  on,  and  his  voice  gained  power.  He 
had  come  to  the  third  stanza,  or  the  fourth,  maybe, 
when  a  command  rang  out  through  the  ward.  It 
was  one  that  had  been  heard  many  and  many  a 
time  in  France,  along  the  trenches.  It  came  from 
one  of  the  beds. 

"To  cover,  men!"  came  the  order. 

It  rang  out  through  the  ward,  in  a  hoarse  voice, 
And  on  the  word  every  man's  head  popped  under 
the  bedclothes!  And  the  great  actor,  astonished 
beyond  measure,  was  left  there,  reciting  away  to 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 


shaking  mounds  of  bedclothes  that  entrenched  his 
hearers  from  the  sound  of  his  voice  ! 

Well,  I  had  heard  yon  tale.  I  do  no  think  I 
should  ever  have  risked  a  similar  fate  by  making 
the  same  sort  of  mistake,  but  I  profited  by  hearing 
it,  and  I  always  remembered  it.  And  there  was 
another  thing.  I  never  thought,  when  I  was  go- 
ing to  sing  for  soldier  s,  that  I  was  doing  some- 
thing for  them  that  should  make  them  glad  to 
listen  to  me,  no  matter  what  I  chose  to  sing  for 
them. 

I  always  thought,  instead,  that  here  was  an  au- 
dience that  had  paid  to  hear  me  in  the  dearest  coin 
in  all  the  world  —  their  legs  and  arms,  their  health 
and  happiness.  Oh,  they  had  paid!  They  had 
not  come  in  on  free  passes!  Their  tickets  had 
cost  them  dear  —  dearer  than  tickets  for  the  thea- 
ter had  ever  cost  before.  I  owed  them  more  than 
I  could  ever  pay  —  my  own  future,  and  my  free- 
dom, and  the  right  and  the  chance  to  go  on  living 
in  my  own  country  free  from  the  threat  and  the 
menace  of  the  Hun.  It  was  for  me  to  please  those 
boys  when  I  sang  for  them,  and  to  make  such  an 
effort  as  no  ordinary  audience  had  ever  heard 
from  me. 

They  had  made  a  little  platform  to  serve  as  a 
stage  for  me.  There  was  room  for  me  and  for 
Johnson,  and  for  the  wee  piano.  And  so  I  sang 
for  them,  and  they  showed  me  from  the  start  that 
they  were  pleased.  Those  who  could,  clapped, 


144  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

and  all  cheered,  and  after  each  song  there  was  a 
great  pounding  of  crutches  on  the  floor.  It  was 
an  inspiring  sound  and  a  great  sight,  sad  though 
it  was  to  see  and  to  hear. 

When  I  had  done  I  went  aboot  amang  the  men, 
shaking  hands  with  such  as  could  gie  me  their 
hands,  and  saying  a  word  or  two  to  all  of  them. 
Directly  in  front  of  the  platform  there  lay  a 
wounded  Scots  soldier,  and  all  through  my  concert 
he  watched  me  most  intently;  he  never  took  his 
eyes  off  me.  When  I  had  sung  my  last  song  he 
beckoned  to  me  feebly,  and  I  went  to  him,  and 
bent  over  to  listen  to  him. 

"Eh,  Harry,  man,"  he  said,  "will  ye  be  doin' 
me  a  favor?" 

"Aye,  that  I  will,  if  I  can,"  I  told  him. 

"It's  to  ask  the  doctor  will  I  no  be  gettin'  better 
soon.  Because,  Harry,  mon,  IVe  but  the  one  de- 
sire left — and  that's  to  be  in  at  the  finish  of  yon 
fight!" 

I  was  to  give  one  more  concert  in  Boulogne,  that 
night.  That  was  more  cheerful,  and  it  was  differ- 
ent, again,  from  anything  I  had  done  or  known  be- 
fore. There  was  a  convalescent  camp,  about  two 
miles  from  town,  high  up  on  the  chalk  cliffs.  And 
this  time  my  theater  was  a  Y.M.C.A.  hut.  But 
do  not  let  the  name  hut  deceive  ye!  I  had  an 
audience  of  two  thousand  men  that  nicht !  It  was 
all  the  "hut"  would  hold,  with  tight  squeezing. 
And  what  a  roaring,  wild  crowd  that  was,  to  be 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  145 

sure !  They  sang  with  me,  and  they  cheered  and 
clapped  until  I  thought  that  hut  would  be  needing 
a  new  roof! 

I  had  to  give  over  at  last,  for  I  was  tired,  and 
needed  sleep.  We  had  our  orders.  The  Rever- 
end Harry  Lauder,  M.P.,  Tour  was  to  start  for 
Vimy  Ridge  at  six  o'clock  next  morning! 


CHAPTER  XIV 

WE  were  up  next  morning  before  daybreak. 
But  I  did  not  feel  as  if  I  were  getting  up 
early.  Indeed,  it  was  quite  the  re- 
verse. All  about  us  was  a  scene  of  such  activity 
that  I  felt  as  if  I  had  been  lying  in  bed  uncon- 
sciously long — as  if  I  were  the  laziest  man  in  all 
that  busy  town.  Troops  were  setting  out,  board- 
ing military  trains.  Cheery,  jovial  fellows  they 
were — the  same  lads,  some  of  them,  who  had 
crossed  the  Channel  with  me,  and  many  others 
who  had  come  in  later.  Oh,  it  is  a  steady  stream 
of  men  and  supplies,  indeed,  that  goes  across  the 
narrow  sea  to  France ! 

Motor  trucks — they  were  calling  them  camions, 
after  the  French  fashion,  because  it  was  a  shorter 
and  a  simpler  word — fairly  swarmed  in  the 
streets.  Guns  rolled  ponderously  along.  It  was 
not  military  pomp  we  saw.  Indeed,  I  saw  little 
enough  of  that  in  France.  It  was  only  the  uni- 
forms and  the  guns  that  made  me  realize  that  this 
was  war.  The  activity  was  more  that  of  a  busy, 
bustling  factory  town.  It  was  not  English,  and 
it  was  not  French.  I  think  it  made  me  think 
more  of  an  American  city.  War,  I  cannot  tell  you 
often  enough,  is  a  great  business,  a  vast  industry, 

146 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  147 

in  these  days.  Someone  said,  and  he  was  right, 
that  they  did  not  win  victories  any  more — that 
they  manufactured  them,  as  all  sorts  of  goods  are 
manufactured.  Digging,  and  building — that  is 
the  great  work  of  modern  war. 

Our  preparations,  being  in  the  hands  of  Captain 
Godfrey  and  the  British  army,  were  few  and 
easily  made.  Two  great,  fast  army  motor  cars 
had  been  put  at  the  disposal  of  the  Reverend 
Harry  Lauder,  M.P.,  Tour,  and  when  we  went  out 
to  get  into  them  and  make  our  start  it  was  just 
a  problem  of  stowing  away  all  we  had  to  carry 
with  us. 

The  first  car  was  a  passenger  car.  Each  motor 
had  a  soldier  as  chauffeur.  I  and  the  Reverend 
George  Adam  rode  in  the  tonneau  of  the  leading 
car,  and  Captain  Godfrey,  our  manager  and  guide, 
sat  with  the  driver,  in  front.  That  was  where  he 
belonged,  and  where,  being  a  British  officer,  he 
naturally  wanted  to  be.  They  have  called  our 
officers  reckless,  and  said  that  they  risked  their 
lives  too  freely.  Weel — I  dinna  ken!  I  am  no 
soldier.  But  I  know  what  a  glorious  tradition  the 
British  officer  has — and  I  know,  too,  how  his  men 
follow  him.  They  know,  do  the  laddies  in  the 
ranks,  that  their  officers  will  never  ask  them  to 
go  anywhere  or  do  anything  they  would  shirk 
themselves — and  that  makes  for  a  spirit  that  you 
could  not  esteem  too  highly. 

It  was  the  second  car  that  was  our  problem0 


148  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

"We  put  Johnson,  my  accompanist,  in  the  tonneau 
first,  and  then  we  covered  him  with  cigarettes.  It 
was  a  problem  to  get  them  stowed  away,  and 
when  we  had  accomplished  the  task,  finally,  there 
was  not  much  of  Johnson  to  be  seen!  He  was 
covered  and  surrounded  with  cigarettes,  but  he 
was  snug,  and  he  looked  happy  and  comfortable, 
as  he  grinned  at  us — his  face  was  about  all  of  him 
that  we  could  see.  Hogge  rode  in  front  with  the 
driver  of  that  car,  and  had  more  room,  so,  than 
he  would  have  had  in  the  tonneau,  where,  as  a 
passenger  and  a  guest,  he  really  belonged.  The 
wee  bit  piano  was  lashed  to  the  grid  of  the  second 
car.  And  I  give  you  my  word  it  looked  like  a 
gypsy's  wagon  more  than  like  one  of  the  neat 
cars  of  the  British  army! 

Weel,  all  was  ready  in  due  time,  and  it  was  just 
six  o'clock  when  we  set  off.  There  was  a  thing 
I  noted  again  and  again.  The  army  did  things 
on  time  in  France.  If  we  were  to  start  at  a  cer- 
tain time  we  always  did.  Nothing  ever  happened 
to  make  us  unpunctual. 

It  was  a  glorious  morning!  We  went  roaring 
out  of  Boulogne  on  a  road  that  was  as  hard  and 
smooth  as  a  paved  street  in  London  despite  all 
the  terrific  traffic  it  had  borne  since  the  war  made 
Boulogne  a  British  base.  And  there  were  no 
speed  limits  here.  So  soon  as  the  cars  were  tuned 
up  we  went  along  at  the  highest  speed  of  which 
the  cars  were  capable.  Our  soldier  drivers  knew 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  149 

their  business ;  only  the  picked  men  were  assigned 
to  the  driving  of  these  cars,  and  speed  was  one 
of  the  things  that  was  wanted  of  them.  Much 
may  hang  on  the  speed  of  a  motor  car  in  France. 

But,  fast  as  we  traveled,  we  did  not  go  too  fast 
for  me  to  enjoy  the  drive  and  the  sights  and 
sounds  that  were  all  about  us.  They  were  oddly 
mixed.  Some  were  homely  and  familiar,  and 
some  were  so  strange  that  I  could  not  give  over 
wondering  at  them.  The  motors  made  a  great 
noise,  but  it  was  not  too  loud  for  me  to  hear  larks 
singing  in  the  early  morning.  All  the  world  was 
green  with  the  early  sun  upon  it,  lighting  up 
every  detail  of  a  strange  countryside.  There  was 
a  soft  wind,  a  gentle,  caressing  wind,  that  stirred 
the  leaves  of  the  trees  along  the  road. 

But  not  for  long  could  we  escape  the  touch  of 
war.  That  grim  etcher  was  at  work  upon  the  road 
and  the  whole  countryside.  As  we  went  on  we 
were  bound  to  move  more  slowly,  because  of  the 
congestion  of  the  traffic.  Never  was  Piccadilly  or 
Fifth  Avenue  more  crowded  with  motors  at  the 
busiest  hour  of  the  day  than  was  that  road.  As 
we  passed  through  villages  or  came  to  cross  roads 
we  saw  military  police,  directing  traffic,  precisely 
as  they  do  at  busy  intersections  of  crowded  streets 
in  London  or  New  York. 

But  the  traffic  along  that  road  was  not  the 
traffic  of  the  cities.  Here  were  no  ladies,  gor- 
geously clad,  reclining  in  their  luxurious,  deeply 


150  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

upholstered  cars.  Here  were  no  footmen  and 
chauffeurs  in  livery.  Ah,  they  wore  a  livery — 
aye!  But  it  was  the  livery  of  glory — the  khaki 
of  the  King!  Generals  and  high  officers  passed 
us,  bowling  along,  lolling  in  their  cars,  taking 
their  few  brief  minutes  or  half  hours  of  ease, 
smoking  and  talking.  They  corresponded  to  the 
limousines  and  landaulets  of  the  cities.  And 
there  were  wagons  from  the  shops — great  trucks, 
carrying  supplies,  going  along  at  a  pace  that 
racked  their  engines  and  their  bodies,  and  that 
boded  disaster  to  whoever  got  in  their  way.  But 
no  one  did — there  was  no  real  confusion  here, 
despite  the  seeming  madness  of  the  welter  of 
traffic  that  we  saw. 

What  a  traffic  that  was!  And  it  was  all  the 
traffic  of  the  carnage  we  were  nearing.  It  was  a 
marvelous  and  an  impressive  panorama  of  force 
and  of  destruction  that  we  saw — it  was  being  con- 
stantly unrolled  before  my  wondering  eyes  as  we 
traveled  along  the  road  out  of  old  Boulogne. 

At  first  all  the  traffic  was  going  our  way.  Some- 
times there  came  a  warning  shriek  from  behind, 
and  everything  drew  to  one  side  to  make  room  for 
a  dispatch  rider  on  a  motor  cycle.  These  had  the 
right  of  way.  Sir  Douglas  Haig  himself,  were  he 
driving  along,  would  see  his  driver  turn  out  to 
make  way  for  one  of  those  shrieking  motor  bikes ! 
The  rule  is  absolute — everything  makes  way  for 
them. 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  151 

But  it  was  not  long  before  a  tide  of  traffic  began 
to  meet  us,  flowing  back  toward  Boulogne.  There 
was  a  double  stream  then,  and  I  wondered  how 
collisions  and  traffic  jams  of  all  sorts  could  be 
avoided.  I  do  not  know  yet;  I  only  know  that 
there  is  no  trouble.  Here  were  empty  trucks, 
speeding  back  for  new  loads.  And  some  there 
were  that  carried  all  sorts  of  wreckage — the  flot- 
sam and  jetsam  cast  up  on  the  safe  shores  behind 
the  front  by  the  red  tide  of  war.  Nothing  is 
thrown  away  out  there ;  nothing  is  wasted.  Great 
piles  of  discarded  shoes  are  brought  back  to  be 
made  over.  They  are  as  good  as  new  when  they 
come  back  from  the  factories  where  they  are 
worked  over.  Indeed,  the  men  told  me  they  were 
better  than  new,  because  they  were  less  trying  to 
their  feet,  and  did  not  need  so  much  breaking  in. 

Men  go  about,  behind  the  front,  and  after  a  bat- 
tle, picking  up  everything  that  has  been  thrown 
away.  Everything  is  sorted  and  gone  over  with 
the  utmost  care.  Eifles  that  have  been  thrown 
away  or  dropped  when  men  were  wounded  or 
killed,  bits  of  uniforms,  bayonets — everything  is 
saved.  Eeclamation  is  the  order  of  the  day. 
There  is  waste  enough  in  war  that  cannot  be 
avoided;  the  British  army  sees  to  it  that  there 
is  none  that  is  avoidable. 

But  it  was  not  only  that  sort  of  wreckage,  that 
sort  of  driftwood  that  was  being  carried  back  to 
be  made  over.  Presently  we  began  to  see  great 


152  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

motor  ambulances  coming  along,  each  with  a  Eed 
Cross  painted  glaringly  on  its  side — though  that 
paint  was  wasted  or  worse,  for  there  is  no  target 
the  Hun  loves  better,  it  would  seem,  than  the  great 
red  cross  of  mercy.  And  in  them,  as  we  knew, 
there  was  the  most  pitiful  wreckage  of  all — the 
human  wreckage  of  the  war. 

In  the  wee  sma'  hours  of  the  morn  they  bear 
the  men  back  who  have  been  hit  the  day  before 
and  during  the  night.  They  go  back  to  the  field 
dressing  stations  and  the  hospitals  just  behind  the 
front,  to  be  sorted  like  the  other  wreckage.  Some 
there  are  who  cannot  be  moved  further,  at  first, 
but  must  be  cared  for  under  fire,  lest  they  die  on 
the  way.  But  all  whose  wounds  are  such  that  they 
can  safely  be  moved  go  back  in  the  ambulances, 
first  to  the  great  base  hospitals,  and  then,  when 
possible,  on  the  hospital  ships  to  England. 

Sometimes,  but  not  often,  we  passed  troops 
marching  along  the  road.  They  swung  along. 
They  marched  easily,  with  the  stride  that  could 
carry  them  furthest  with  the  least  effort.  They 
did  not  look  much  like  the  troops  I  used  to  see  in 
London.  They  did  not  have  the  snap  of  the  Cold- 
stream  Guards,  marching  through  Green  Park  in 
the  old  days.  But  they  looked  like  business  and 
like  war.  They  looked  like  men  who  had  a  job 
of  work  to  do  and  meant  to  see  it  through. 

They  had  discipline,  those  laddies,  but  it  was 
not  the  old,  stiff  discipline  of  the  old  army.  That 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  153 

is  a  thing  of  a  day  that  is  dead  and  gone.  Now, 
as  we  passed  along  the  side  of  the  road  that 
marching  troops  always  leave  clear,  there  was 
always  a  series  of  hails  for  me. 

' '  Hello,  Harry ! "  I  would  hear. 

And  I  would  look  back,  and  see  grinning  Tom- 
mies waving  their  hands  to  me.  It  was  a  flatter- 
ing experience,  I  can  tell  you,  to  be  recognized 
like  that  along  that  road.  It  was  like  running  into 
old  friends  in  a  strange  town  where  you  have 
come  thinking  you  know  no  one  at  all. 

We  were  about  thirty  miles  out  of  Boulogne 
when  there  was  a  sudden  explosion  underneath 
the  car,  followed  by  a  sibilant  sound  that  I  knew 
only  too  well. 

1 '  Hello — a  puncture ! ' '  said  Godfrey,  and  smiled 
as  he  turned  around.  We  drew  up  to  the  side  of 
the  road,  and  both  chauffeurs  jumped  out  and 
went  to  work  on  the  recalcitrant  tire.  The  rest  of 
us  sat  still,  and  gazed  around  us  at  the  fields.  I 
was  glad  to  have  a  chance  to  look  quietly  about. 
The  fields  stretched  out,  all  emerald  green,  in  all 
directions  to  the  distant  horizon,  sapphire  blue 
that  glorious  morning.  And  in  the  fields,  here  and 
there,  were  the  bent,  stooped  figures  of  old  men 
and  women.  They  were  carrying  on,  quietly. 
Husbands  and  sons  and  brothers  had  gone  to  war ; 
all  the  young  men  of  France  had  gone.  These 
were  left,  and  they  were  seeing  to  the  perform- 
ance of  the  endless  cycle  of  duty.  France  would 


154s  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

survive ;  the  Hun  could  not  crush  her.  Here  was 
a  spirit  made  manifest — a  spirit  different  in 
degree  but  not  in  kind  from  the  spirit  of  my  ain 
Britain.  It  brought  a  lump  into  my  throat  to  see 
them,  the  old  men  and  the  women,  going  so  pa- 
tiently and  quietly  about  their  tasks. 

It  was  very  quiet.  Faint  sounds  came  to  us ; 
there  was  a  distant  rumbling,  like  the  muttering 
of  thunder  on  a  summer's  night,  when  the  day 
has  been  hot  and  there  are  low,  black  clouds  lying 
against  the  horizon,  with  the  flashes  of  the  light- 
ning playing  through  them.  But  that  I  had  come 
already  not  to  heed,  though  I  knew  full  well,  by 
now,  what  it  was  and  what  it  meant.  For  a  little 
space  the  busy  road  had  become  clear;  there  was 
a  long  break  in  the  traffic. 

I  turned  to  Adam  and  to  Captain  Godfrey. 

1  'I'm  thinking  here's  a  fine  chance  for  a  bit  of 
a  rehearsal  in  the  open  air,"  I  said.  "I'm  not 
used  to  singing  so — mayhap  it  would  be  well  to 
try  my  voice  and  see  will  it  carry  as  it  should." 

1 1 Right  oh!"  said  Godfrey. 

And  so  we  dug  Johnson  out  from  his  snug  bar- 
ricade of  cigarettes,  that  hid  him  as  an  emplace- 
ment hides  a  gun,  and  we  unstrapped  my  wee 
piano,  and  set  it  up  in  the  road.  Johnson  tried 
the  piano,  and  then  we  began. 

I  think  I  never  sang  with  less  restraint  in  all  my 
life  than  I  did  that  quiet  morning  on  the  Boulogne 
road.  I  raised  my  voice  and  let  it  have  its  will. 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  155 

And  I  felt  my  spirits  rising  with  the  lilt  of  the 
melody.  My  voice  rang  out,  full  and  free,  and 
it  must  have  carried  far  and  wide  across  the 
fields. 

My  audience  was  small  at  first — Captain  God- 
frey, Hogge,  Adam,  and  the  two  chauffeurs,  work- 
ing away,  and  having  more  trouble  with  the  tire 
than  they  had  thought  at  first  they  would — which 
is  the  way  of  tires,  as  every  man  knows  who  owns 
a  car.  But  as  they  heard  my  songs  the  old  men 
and  women  in  the  fields  straightened  up  to  listen. 
They  stood  wondering,  at  first,  and  then,  slowly, 
they  gave  over  their  work  for  a  space,  and  came 
to  gather  round  me  and  to  listen. 

It  must  have  seemed  strange  to  them !  Indeed, 
it  must  have  seemed  strange  to  anyone  had  they 
seen  and  heard  me!  There  I  was,  with  Johnson 
at  my  piano,  like  some  wayside  tinker  setting  up 
his  cart  and  working  at  his  trade !  But  I  did  not 
care  for  appearances — not  a  whit.  For  the  mo- 
ment I  was  care  free,  a  wandering  minstrel,  like 
some  troubadour  of  old,  care  free  and  happy  in 
my  song.  I  forgot  the  black  shadow  under  which 
we  all  lay  in  that  smiling  land,  the  black  shadow 
of  war  in  which  I  sang. 

It  delighted  me  to  see  those  old  peasants  and 
to  study  their  faces,  and  to  try  to  win  them  with 
my  song.  They  could  not  understand  a  word  I 
sang,  and  yet  I  saw  the  smiles  breaking  out  over 
their  wrinkled  faces,  and  it  made  me  proud  and 


156  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

happy.  For  it  was  plain  that  I  was  reaching 
them — that  I  was  able  to  throw  a  bridge  over  the 
gap  of  a  strange  tongue  and  an  alien  race.  When 
I  had  done  and  it  was  plain  I  meant  to  sing  no 
more  they  clapped  me. 

" There's  a  hand  for  you,  Harry,"  said  Adam. 

"Aye — and  I'm  proud  of  it!"  I  told  him  for 
reply. 

I  was  almost  sorry  when  I  saw  that  the  two 
chauffeurs  had  finished  their  repairs  and  were 
ready  to  go  on.  But  I  told  them  to  lash  the  piano 
back  in  its  place,  and  Johnson  prepared  to  climb 
gingerly  back  among  his  cigarettes.  But  just  then 
something  happened  that  I  had  not  expected. 

There  was  a  turn  in  the  road  just  beyond  us 
that  hid  its  continuation  from  us.  And  around  the 
bend  now  there  came  a  company  of  soldiers.  Not 
neat  and  well-appointed  soldiers  these.  Ah,  no! 
They  were  fresh  from  the  trenches,  on  their  way 
back  to  rest.  The  mud  and  grime  of  the  trenches 
were  upon  them.  They  were  tired  and  weary,  and 
they  carried  all  their  accoutrements  and  packs 
with  them.  Their  boots  were  heavy  with  mud. 
And  they  looked  bad,  and  many  of  them  shaky. 
Most  of  these  men,  Godfrey  told  me  after  a  glance 
at  them,  had  been  ordered  back  to  hospital  for 
minor  ailments.  They  were  able  to  march,  but  not 
much  more. 

They  were  the  first  men  I  had  seen  in  such  a 
case.  They  looked  bad  enough,  but  Godfrey  said 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  157 

they  were  happy  enough.  Some  of  them  would 
get  leave  for  Blighty,  and  be  home,  in  a  few  days, 
to  see  their  families  and  their  girls.  And  they 
came  swinging  along  in  fine  style,  sick  and  tired 
as  they  were,  for  the  thought  of  where  they  were 
going  cheered  them  and  helped  to  keep  them 
going. 

A  British  soldier,  equipped  for  the  trenches,  on 
his  way  in  or  out,  has  quite  a  load  to  carry.  He 
has  his  pack,  and  his  emergency  ration,  and  his 
entrenching  tools,  and  extra  clothing  that  he  needs 
in  bad  weather  in  the  trenches,  to  say  nothing  of 
his  ever-present  rifle.  And  the  sight  of  them 
made  me  realize  for  the  first  time  the  truth  that 
lay  behind  the  jest  in  a  story  that  is  one  of 
Tommy's  favorites. 

A  child  saw  a  soldier  in  heavy  marching  order. 
She  gazed  at  him  in  wide-eyed  wonder.  He  was 
not  her  idea  of  what  a  soldier  should  look  like. 

"Mother,"  she  asked,  "  what  is  a  soldier  for?" 

The  mother  gazed  at  the  man.  And  then  she 
smiled. 

"A  soldier,"  she  answered,  "is  to  hang  things 
on." 

They  eyed  me  very  curiously  as  they  came 
along,  those  sick  laddies.  They  couldn't  seem  to 
understand  what  I  was  doing  there,  but  their  dis- 
cipline held  them.  They  were  in  charge  of  a 
young  lieutenant  with  one  star — a  second  lieu- 
tenant. I  learned  later  that  he  was  a  long  way 


158  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

from  being  a  well  man  himself.    So  I  stopped  him. 

"Would  your  men  like  to  hear  a  few  songs, 
lieutenant!"  I  asked  him. 

He  hesitated.  He  didn't  quite  understand,  and 
he  wasn't  a  bit  sure  what  his  duty  was  in  the  cir- 
cumstances. He  glanced  at  Godfrey,  and  Godfrey 
smiled  at  him  as  if  in  encouragement. 

"It's  very  good  of  you,  I'm  sure,"  he  said, 
slowly.  "Fallout!" 

So  the  men  fell  out,  and  squatted  there,  along 
the  wayside.  At  once  discipline  was  relaxed. 
Their  faces  were  a  study  as  the  wee  piano  was 
set  up  again,  and  Johnson,  in  uniform,  of  course 
sat  down  and  trued  a  chord  or  two.  And  then 
suddenly  something  happened  that  broke  the  ice. 
Just  as  I  stood  up  to  sing  a  loud  voice  broke  the 
silence. 

"Lor*  love  us!"  one  of  the  men  cried,  "if  it 
ain't  old  'Arry  Lauder!" 

There  was  a  stir  of  interest  at  once.  I  spotted 
the  owner  of  the  voice.  It  was  a  shriveled  up  lit- 
tle chap,  with  a  weazened  face  that  looked  like  a 
sun-dried  apple.  He  was  showing  all  his  teeth  in 
a  grin  at  me,  and  he  was  a  typical  little  cockney 
of  the  sort  all  Londoners  know  well. 

"Go  it,  'Arry!"  he  shouted,  shrilly.  "Many's 
the  time  h'  I've  'card  you  at  the  old  Shoreditch!" 

So  I  went  it  as  well  as  I  could,  and  I  never  did 
have  a  more  appreciative  audience.  My  little 
cockney  friend  seemed  to  take  a  particular  per- 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  159 

sonal  pride  in  me.  I  think  he  thought  he  had 
found  me,  and  that  he  was,  in  an  odd  way,  respon- 
sible for  my  success  with  his  mates.  And  so  he 
was  especially  glad  when  they  cheered  me  and 
thanked  me  as  they  did. 

My  concert  didn't  last  long,  for  we  had  to  be 
getting  on,  and  the  company  of  sick  men  had  just 
so  much  time,  too,  to  reach  their  destination — 
Boulogne,  whence  we  had  set  out.  When  it  was 
over  I  said  good-by  to  the  men,  and  shook  hands 
with  particular  warmth  with  the  little  cockney. 
It  wasn't  every  day  I  was  likely  to  meet  a  man 
who  had  often  heard  me  at  the  old  Shoreditch! 
After  we  had  stowed  Johnson  and  the  piano  away 
again,  with  a  few  less  cigarettes,  now,  to  get  in 
Johnson's  way,  we  started,  and  as  long  as  we 
were  in  sight  the  little  cockney  and  I  were  wav- 
ing to  one  another. 

I  took  some  of  the  cigarettes  into  the  car  I  was 
in  now.  And  as  we  sped  along  we  were  again  in 
the  thick  of  the  great  British  war  machine.  Motor 
trucks  and  ambulances  were  more  frequent  than 
ever,  and  it  was  a  common  occurrence  now  to  pass 
soldiers,  marching  in  both  directions — to  the 
front  and  away  from  it.  There  was  always  some- 
one to  recognize  me  and  start  a  volley  of  "Hello, 
Harrys"  coming  my  way,  and  I  answered  every 
greeting,  you  may  be  sure,  and  threw  cigarettes 
to  go  with  my  " Helios." 

Aye,  I  was  glad  I  had  brought  the  cigarettes ! 


160  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

They  seemed  to  be  even  more  welcome  than  I  had 
hoped  they  would  be,  and  I  only  wondered  how 
long  the  supply  would  hold  out,  and  if  I  would  be 
able  to  get  more  if  it  did  not.  So  Johnson,  little 
by  little,  was  getting  more  room,  as  I  called  for 
more  and  more  of  the  cigarettes  that  walled  him 
in  in  his  tonneau. 

About  noon,  as  we  drove  through  a  little  town, 
I  saw,  for  the  first  time,  a  whole  flock  of  airplanes 
riding  the  sky.  They  were  swooping  about  like 
lazy  hawks,  and  a  bonnie  sight  they  were.  I  drew 
a  long  breath  when  I  saw  them,  and  turned  to  my 
friend  Adam. 

"Well,"  I  said,  "I  think  we're  coming  to  it, 
now!" 

I  meant  the  front — the  real,  British  front. 

Suddenly,  at  a  sharp  order  from  Captain  God- 
frey, our  cars  stopped.  He  turned  around  to  us, 
and  grinned,  very  cheerfully. 

" Gentlemen,"  he  said,  very  calmly,  "we'll  stop 
here  long  enough  to  put  on  our  steel  helmets." 

He  said  it  just  as  he  might  have  said:  "Well, 
here's  where  we  will  stop  for  tea." 

It  meant  no  more  than  that  to  him.  But  for  me 
it  meant  many  things.  It  meant  that  at  last  I  was 
really  to  be  under  fire;  that  I  was  going  into 
danger.  I  was  not  really  frightened  yet ;  you  have 
to  see  danger,  and  know  just  what  it  is,  and  appre- 
ciate exactly  its  character,  before  you  can  be 
frightened.  But  I  had  imagination  enough  to 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  161, 

know  what  that  order  meant,  and  to  have  a  queer 
feeling  as  I  donned  the  steel  helmet.  It  was  less 
uncomfortable  than  I  had  expected  it  to  be — 
lighter,  and  easier  to  wear.  The  British  trench 
helmets  are  beautifully  made,  now;  as  in  every 
other  phase  of  the  war  and  its  work  they  repre- 
sent a  constant  study  for  improvement,  lightening. 

But,  even  had  it  not  been  for  the  warning  that 
was  implied  in  Captain  Godfrey's  order,  I  should 
soon  have  understood  that  we  had  come  into  a  new 
region.  For  a  long  time  now  the  noise  of  the  guns 
had  been  different.  Instead  of  being  like  distant 
thunder  it  was  a  much  nearer  and  louder  sound. 
It  was  a  steady,  throbbing  roar  now. 

And,  at  intervals,  there  came  a  different  sound ; 
a  sound  more  individual,  that  stood  out  from  the 
steady  roar.  It  was  as  if  the  air  were  being 
cracked  apart  by  the  blow  of  some  giant  hammer. 
I  knew  what  it  was.  Aye,  I  knew.  You  need  no 
man  to  tell  you  what  it  is — the  explosion  of  a 
great  shell  not  so  far  from  you ! 

Nor  was  it  our  ears  alone  that  told  us  what  was 
going  on.  Ever  and  anon,  now,  ahead  of  us,  as 
we  looked  at  the  fields,  we  saw  a  cloud  of  dirt  rise 
up.  That  was  where  a  shell  struck.  And  in  the 
fields  about  us,  now,  we  could  see  holes,  full  of 
water,  as  a  rule,  and  mounds  of  dirt  that  did  not 
look  as  if  shovels  and  picks  had  raised  them. 

It  surprised  me  to  see  that  the  peasants  were 
still  at  work.  I  spoke  to  Godfrey  about  that. 


162  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

"The  French  peasants  don't  seem  to  know  what 
it  is  to  be  afraid  of  shell-fire,"  he  said.  "They 
go  only  when  we  make  them.  It  is  the  same  on 
the  French  front.  They  will  cling  to  a  farm- 
house in  the  zone  of  fire  until  they  are  ordered 
out,  no  matter  how  heavily  it  may  be  shelled. 
They  are  splendid  folk !  The  Germans  can  never 
beat  a  race  that  has  such  folk  as  that  behind  its 
battle  line." 

I  could  well  believe  him.  I  have  seen  no  sight 
along  the  whole  front  more  quietly  impressive 
than  the  calm,  impassive  courage  of  those  French 
peasants.  They  know  they  are  right!  It  is  no 
Kaiser,  no  war  lord,  who  gives  them  courage.  It 
is  the  knowledge  and  the  consciousness  that  they 
are  suffering  in  a  holy  cause,  and  that,  in  the  end, 
the  right  and  the  truth  must  prevail.  Their  own 
fate,  whatever  may  befall  them,  does  not  matter. 
France  must  go  on  and  shall,  and  they  do  their 
humble  part  to  see  that  she  does  and  shall. 

Solemn  thoughts  moved  me  as  we  drove  on. 
Here  there  had  been  real  war  and  fighting.  Now 
I  saw  a  country  blasted  by  shell-fire  and  wrecked 
by  the  contention  of  great  armies.  And  I  knew 
that  I  was  coming  to  soil  watered  by  British 
blood ;  to  rows  of  British  graves ;  to  soil  that  shall 
be  forever  sacred  to  the  memory  of  the  Britons, 
from  Britain  and  from  over  the  seas,  who  died 
and  fought  upon  it  to  redeem  it  from  the  Hun. 

I  had  no  mind  to  talk,  to  ask  questions.    For 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  163 

the  time  I  was  content  to  be  with  my  own  thoughts, 
that  were  evoked  by  the  historic  ground  through 
which  we  passed.  My  heart  was  heavy  with  grief 
and  with  the  memories  of  my  boy  that  came  flood- 
ing it,  but  it  was  lightened,  too,  by  other  thoughts. 
And  always,  as  we  sped  on,  there  was  the 
thunder  of  the  guns.  Always  there  were  the 
bursting  shells,  and  the  old  bent  peasants  paying 
no  heed  to  them.  Always  there  were  the  circling 
airplanes,  far  above  us,  like  hawks  against  the 
deep  blue  of  the  sky.  And  always  we  came  nearer 
and  nearer  to  Vimy  Eidge — that  deathless  name 
in  the  history  of  Britain. 


CHAPTER  XV 

NOW    Captain    Godfrey    leaned   back    and 
smiled  at  us. 

"There's  Vimy  Eidge,"  he  said.    And 
he  pointed. 

"Yon?"  I  asked,  in  astonishment. 

I  was  almost  disappointed.  We  had  heard  so 
much,  in  Britain  and  in  Scotland,  of  Vimy  Eidge. 
The  name  of  that  famous  hill  had  been  written  im- 
perishably  in  history.  But  to  look  at  it  first,  to 
see  it  as  I  saw  it,  it  was  no  hill  at  all !  My  eyes 
were  used  to  the  mountains  of  my  ain  Scotland, 
and  this  great  ridge  was  but  a  tiny  thing  beside 
them.  But  then  I  began  to  picture  the  scene  as  it 
had  been  the  day  the  Canadians  stormed  it  and 
won  for  themselves  the  glory  of  all  the  ages.  I 
pictured  it  blotted  from  sight  by  the  hell  of  shells 
bursting  over  it,  and  raking  its  slopes  as  the  Cana- 
dians charged  upward.  I  pictured  it  crowned  by 
defenses  and  lined  by  such  of  the  Huns  as  had  sur- 
vived the  artillery  battering,  spitting  death  and 
destruction  from  their  machine  guns.  And  then  I 
saw  it  as  I  should,  and  I  breathed  deep  at  the 
thought  of  the  men  who  had  faced  death  and  hell 
to  win  that  height  and  plant  the  flag  of  Britain 
upon  it.  Aye,  and  the  Stars  and  Stripes  of 
America,  too! 

164 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  165 

Ye  ken  that  tale  T  There  was  an  American  who 
had  enlisted,  like  so  many  of  his  fellow  countrymen 
before  America  was  in  the  war,  in  the  Canadian 
forces.  The  British  army  was  full  of  men  who 
had  told  a  white  lie  to  don  the  King's  uniform. 
Men  there  are  in  the  British  army  who  winked  as 
they  enlisted  and  were  told:  "You'll  be  a  Cana- 
dian?" 

"Aye,  aye,  I'm  a  Canadian,"  they'd  say. 

"From  what  province!" 

"The  province  of  Kentucky — or  New  York — 
or  California!" 

Well,  there  was  a  lad,  one  of  them,  was  in  the 
first  wave  at  Vimy  Eidge  that  April  day  in  1917. 
'Twas  but  a  few  days  before  that  a  wave  of  the 
wildest  cheering  ever  heard  had  run  along  the 
whole  Western  front,  so  that  Fritz  in  his  trenches 
wondered  what  was  up  the  noo.  Well,  he  has 
learned,  since  then!  He  has  learned,  despite  his 
Kaiser  and  his  officers,  and  his  lying  newspapers, 
that  that  cheer  went  up  when  the  news  came  that 
America  had  declared  war  upon  Germany.  And 
so,  it  was  a  few  days  after  that  cheer  was  heard 
that  the  Canadians  leaped  over  the  top  and  went 
for  Vimy  Eidge,  and  this  young  fellow  from 
America  had  a  wee  silken  flag.  He  spoke  to  his 
officer. 

"Now  that  my  own  country's  in  the  war,  sir," 
he  said,  "I'd  like  to  carry  her  flag  with  me  when 
we  go  over  the  top.  Wrapped  around  me,  sir — =—." 


166  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

"Go  it!"  said  the  officer. 

And  so  he  did.  And  he  was  one  of  those  who 
won  through  and  reached  the  top.  There  he  was 
wounded,  but  he  had  carried  the  Stars  and  Stripes 
with  him  to  the  crest. 

Vimy  Ridge !  I  could  see  it.  And  above  it,  and 
beyond  it,  now,  for  the  front  had  been  carried  on, 
far  beyond,  within  what  used  to  be  the  lines  of  the 
Hun,  the  airplanes  circled.  Very  quiet  and  lazy 
they  seemed,  for  all  I  knew  of  their  endless  activ- 
ity and  the  precious  work  that  they  were  doing. 
I  could  see  how  the  Huns  were  shelling  them. 
You  would  see  an  airplane  hovering,  and  then, 
close  by,  suddenly,  a  ball  of  cottony  white  smoke. 
Shrapnel  that  was,  bursting,  as  Fritz  tried  to  get 
the  range  with  an  anti-aircraft  gun — an  Archie, 
as  the  Tommies  call  them.  But  the  plane  would 
pay  no  heed,  except,  maybe,  to  dip  a  bit  or  climb 
a  little  higher  to  make  it  harder  for  the  Hun.  It 
made  me  think  of  a  man  shrugging  his  shoulders, 
calmly  and  imperturbably,  in  the  face  of  some 
great  peril,  and  I  wanted  to  cheer.  I  had  some 
wild  idea  that  maybe  he  would  hear  me,  and  know 
that  someone  saw  him,  and  appreciated  what  he 
was  doing — someone  to  whom  it  was  not  an  old 
story!  But  then  I  smiled  at  my  own  thought. 

Now  it  was  time  for  us  to  leave  the  cars  and 
get  some  exercise.  Our  steel  helmets  were  on, 
and  glad  we  were  of  them,  for  shrapnel  was 
bursting  nearby  sometimes,  although  most  of  the 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  167 

shells  were  big  fellows,  that  buried  themselves  in 
the  ground  and  then  exploded.  Fritz  wasn't 
doing  much  casual  shelling  the  noo,  though.  He 
was  saving  his  fire  until  his  observers  gave  him  a 
real  target  to  aim  at.  But  that  was  no  so  often, 
for  our  airplanes  were  in  command  of  the  air  then, 
and  his  flyers  got  precious  little  chance  to  guide 
his  shooting.  Most  of  his  hits  were  due  to 
luck. 

1  'Spread  out  a  bit  as  you  go  along  here,"  said 
Captain  Godfrey.  "  If  a  crump  lands  close  by 
there 's  no  need  of  all  of  us  going !  If  we  're  spread 
out  a  bit,  you  see,  a  shell  might  get  one  and  leave 
the  rest  of  us." 

It  sounded  cold  blooded,  but  it  was  not.  To  men 
who  have  lived  at  the  front  everything  comes  to 
be  taken  as  a  matter  of  course.  Men  can  get  used 
to  anything — this  war  has  proved  that  again,  if 
there  was  need  of  proving  it.  And  I  came  to 
understand  that,  and  to  listen  to  things  I  heard 
with  different  ears.  But  those  are  things  no  one 
can  tell  you  of;  you  must  have  been  at  the  front 
yourself  to  understand  all  that  goes  on  there,  both 
in  action  and  in  the  minds  of  men. 

"We  obeyed  Captain  Godfrey  readily  enough,  as 
you  can  guess.  And  so  I  was  alone  as  I  walked 
toward  Vimy  Eidge.  It  looked  just  like  a  lumpy 
excrescence  on  the  landscape;  at  hame  we  would 
not  even  think  of  it  as  a  foothill.  But  as  I  neared 
it,  and  as  I  rememered  all  it  stood  for,  I  thought 


168  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

that  in  the  atlas  of  history  it  would  loom  higher 
than  the  highest  peak  of  the  great  Himalaya 
range. 

Beyond  the  ridge,  beyond  the  actual  line  of  the 
trenches,  miles  away,  indeed,  were  the  German 
batteries  from  which  the  shells  we  heard  and  saw 
as  they  burst  were  coming.  I  was  glad  of  my  hel- 
met, and  of  the  cool  assurance  of  Captain  God- 
frey. I  felt  that  we  were  as  safe,  in  his  hands,  as 
men  could  be  in  such  a  spot. 

It  was  not  more  than  a  mile  we  had  to  cover, 
but  it  was  rough  going,  bad  going.  Here  war  had 
had  its  grim  way  without  interruption.  The  face 
of  the  earth  had  been  cut  to  pieces.  Its  surface 
had  been  smashed  to  a  pulpy  mass.  The  ground 
had  been  plowed,  over  and  over,  by  a  rain  of 
shells — German  and  British.  What  a  planting 
there  had  been  that  spring,  and  what  a  plowing! 
A  harvest  of  death  it  had  been  that  had  been  sown 
— and  the  reaper  had  not  waited  for  summer  to 
come,  and  the  Harvest  moon.  He  had  passed  that 
way  with  his  scythe,  and  where  we  passed  now  he 
had  taken  his  terrible,  his  horrid,  toll. 

At  the  foot  of  the  ridge  I  saw  men  fighting  for 
the  first  time — actually  fighting,  seeking  to  hurt 
an  enemy.  It  was  a  Canadian  battery  we  saw,  and 
it  was  firing,  steadily  and  methodically,  at  the 
Huns.  Up  to  now  I  had  seen  only  the  vast  indus- 
trial side  of  war,  its  business  and  its  labor.  Now 
I  was,  for  the  first  time,  in  touch  with  actual  fight- 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  169 

ing.  I  saw  the  guns  belching  death  and  destruc- 
tion, destined  for  men  miles  away.  It  was  high 
angle  fire,  of  course,  directed  by  observers  in  the 
air. 

But  even  that  seemed  part  of  the  sheer,  factory- 
like  industry  of  war.  There  was  no  passion,  no 
coming  to  grips  in  hot  blood,  here.  Orders  were 
given  by  the  battery  commander  and  the  other 
officers  as  the  foreman  in  a  machine  shop  might 
give  them.  And  the  busy  artillerymen  worked  like 
laborers,  too,  clearing  their  guns  after  a  salvo, 
loading  them,  bringing  up  fresh  supplies  of  am- 
munition. It  was  all  methodical,  all  a  matter  of 
routine. 

' '  Good  artillery  work  is  like  that, ' '  said  Captain 
Godfrey,  when  I  spoke  to  him  about  it.  "It's  a 
science.  It's  all  a  matter  of  the  higher  mathe- 
matics. Everything  is  worked  out  to  half  a  dozen 
places  of  decimals.  We've  eliminated  chance  and 
guesswork  just  as  far  as  possible  from  modern 
artillery  actions." 

But  there  was  something  about  it  all  that  wac 
disappointing,  at  first  sight.  It  let  you  down  a  bit. 
Only  the  guns  themselves  kept  up  the  tradition. 
Only  they  wTere  acting  as  they  should,  and  show- 
ing a  proper  passion  and  excitement.  I  could  hear 
them  growling  ominously,  like  dogs  locked  in  their 
kennel  when  they  would  be  loose  and  about,  and 
hunting.  And  then  they  would  spit,  angrily.  They 
inflamed  my  imagination,  did  those  guns;  they 


170  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

satisfied  me  and  my  old-fashioned  conception  of 
war  and  fighting,  more  than  anything  else  that  I 
had  seen  had  done.  And  it  seemed  to  me  that 
after  they  had  spit  out  their  deadly  charge  they 
wiped  their  muzzles  with  red  tongues  of  flame, 
satisfied  beyond  all  words  or  measure  with  what 
they  had  done. 

We  were  rising  now,  as  we  walked,  and  getting 
a  better  view  of  the  country  that  lay  beyond. 
And  so  I  came  to  understand  a  little  better  the 
value  of  a  height  even  so  low  and  insignificant  as 
Vimy  Ridge  in  that  flat  country.  While  the  Ger- 
mans held  it  they  could  overlook  all  our  positions, 
and  all  the  advantage  of  natural  placing  had  been 
to  them.  Now,  thanks  to  the  Canadians,  it  was 
our  turn,  and  we  were  looking  down. 

Weel,  I  was  under  fire.  There  was  no  doubt 
about  it.  There  was  a  droning  over  us  now,  like 
the  noise  bees  make,  or  many  flies  in  a  small  room 
on  a  hot  summer's  day.  That  was  the  drone  of 
the  German  shells.  There  was  a  little  freshening 
of  the  artillery  activity  on  both  sides,  Captain 
Godfrey  said,  as  if  in  my  honor.  When  one  side 
increased  its  fire  the  other  always  answered — 
played  copy  cat.  There  was  no  telling,  ye  ken, 
when  such  an  increase  of  fire  might  not  be  the 
first  sign  of  an  attack.  And  neither  side  took 
more  chances  than  it  must. 

I  had  known,  before  I  left  Britain,  that  I  would 
come  under  fire.  And  I  had  wondered  what  it 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  171 

would  be  like.  I  had  expected  to  be  afraid,  nerv- 
ous. Brave  men  had  told  me,  one  after  another, 
that  every  man  is  afraid  when  he  first  comes  under 
fire.  And  so  I  had  wondered  how  I  would  be,  and 
I  had  expected  to  be  badly  scared  and  extremely 
nervous.  Now  I  could  hear  that  constant  dron- 
ing of  shells,  and,  in  the  distance,  I  could  see,  very 
often,  powdery  squirts  of  smoke  and  dirt  along 
the  ground,  where  our  shells  were  striking,  so 
that  I  knew  I  had  the  Hun  lines  in  sight. 

And  I  can  truthfully  say  that,  that  day,  at  least, 
I  felt  no  great  fear  or  nervousness.  Later  I  did, 
as  I  shall  tell  you,  but  that  day  one  overpowering 
emotion  mastered  every  other.  It  was  a  desire  for 
vengeance!  Yon  were  the  Huns — the  men  who 
had  killed  my  boy.  They  were  almost  within  my 
reach.  And  as  I  looked  at  them  there  in  their 
lines  a  savage  desire  possessed  me,  almost  over- 
whelmed me,  indeed,  that  made  me  want  to  rush 
to  those  guns  and  turn  them  to  my  own  mad  pur- 
pose of  vengeance. 

It  was  all  I  could  do,  I  tell  you,  to  restrain 
myself — to  check  that  wild,  almost  ungovernable 
impulse  to  rush  to  the  guns  and  grapple  with 
them  myself — myself  fire  them  at  the  men  who 
had  killed  my  boy.  I  wanted  to  fight !  I  wanted 
to  fight  with  my  two  hands — to  tear  and  rend,  and 
have  the  consciousness  that  I  flash  back,  like  a 
telegraph  message  from  my  satiated  hands  to  my 
eager  brain  that  was  spurring  me  on. 


172  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

But  that  was  not  to  be.  I  knew  it,  and  I  grew 
calmer,  presently.  The  roughness  of  the  going 
helped  me  to  do  that,  for  it  took  all  a  man's  wits 
and  faculties  to  grope  his  way  along  the  path  we 
were  following  now.  Indeed,  it  was  no  path  at 
all  that  led  us  to  the  Pimple — the  topmost  point 
of  Vimy  Eidge,  which  changed  hands  half  a  dozen 
times  in  the  few  minutes  of  bloody  fighting  that 
had  gone  on  here  during  the  great  attack. 

The  ground  was  absolutely  riddled  with  shell 
holes  here.  There  must  have  been  a  mine  of  metal 
underneath  us.  What  path  there  was  zigzagged 
around.  It  had  been  worn  to  such  smoothness  as 
it  possessed  since  the  battle,  and  it  evaded  the 
worst  craters  by  going  around  them.  My  mad- 
ness was  passed  now,  and  a  great  sadness  had 
taken  its  place.  For  here,  where  I  was  walking, 
men  had  stumbled  up  with  bullets  and  shells  rain- 
ing about  them.  At  every  step  I  trod  ground  that 
must  have  been  the  last  resting-place  of  some 
Canadian  soldier,  who  had  died  that  I  might  climb 
this  ridge  in  a  safety  so  immeasurably  greater 
than  his  had  been. 

If  it  was  hard  for  us  to  make  this  climb,  if  we 
stumbled  as  we  walked,  what  had  it  been  for  them? 
Our  breath  came  hard  and  fast — how  had  it  been 
with  them?  Yet  they  had  done  it!  They  had 
stormed  the  ridge  the  Huns  had  proudly  called 
impregnable.  They  had  taken,  in  a  swift  rush, 
that  nothing  could  stay,  a  position  the  Kaiser's 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  173 

generals  had  assured  him  would  never  be 
lost — could  never  be  reached  by  mortal 
troops. 

The  Pimple,  for  which  we  were  heading  now, 
was  an  observation  post  at  that  time.  There  there 
was  a  detachment  of  soldiers,  for  it  was  an  impor- 
tant post,  covering  much  of  the  Hun  territory 
beyond.  A  major  of  infantry  was  in  command; 
his  headquarters  were  a  large  hole  in  the  ground, 
dug  for  him  by  a  German  shell — fired  by  German 
gunners  who  had  no  thought  further  from  their 
minds  than  to  do  a  favor  for  a  British  officer. 
And  he  was  sitting  calmly  in  front  of  his  head- 
quarters, smoking  a  pipe,  when  we  reached  the 
crest  and  came  to  the  Pimple. 

He  was  a  very  calm  man,  that  major,  given,  I 
should  say,  to  the  greatest  repression.  I  think 
nothing  would  have  moved  him  from  that  phleg- 
matic calm  of  his !  He  watched  us  coming,  climb- 
ing and  making  hard  going  of  it.  If  he  was 
amused  he  gave  no  sign,  as  he  puffed  at  his  pipe. 
I,  for  one,  was  puffing,  too — I  was  panting  like  a 
grampus.  I  had  thought  myself  in  good  condition, 
but  I  found  out  at  Vimy  Eidge  that  I  was  soft 
and  flabby. 

Not  a  sign  did  that  major  give  until  we  reached 
him.  And  then,  as  we  stood  looking  at  him,  and 
beyond  him  at  the  panorama  of  the  trenches,  he 
took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth. 

' 'Welcome  to  Vimy  Eidge ! "  he  said,  in  the  man- 


174.  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

ner  of  a  host  greeting  a  party  bidden  for  the  week- 
end. 

I  was  determined  that  that  major  should  not 
outdo  me.  I  had  precious  little  wind  left  to 
breathe  with,  much  less  to  talk,  but  I  called  for 
the  last  of  it. 

" Thank  you,  major,"  I  said.  "May  I  join  you 
in  a  smoke?" 

"Of  course  you  can!"  he  said,  unsmiling. 
"That  is,  if  you've  brought  your  pipe  with  you." 

"Aye,  I've  my  pipe,"  I  told  him.  "I  may  for- 
get to  pay  my  debt,  but  I'll  never  forget  my  pipe. ' ' 

And  no  more  I  will. 

So  I  sat  down  beside  him,  and  drew  out  my  pipe, 
and  made  a  long  business  of  filling  it,  and  pushing 
the  tobacco  down  just  so,  since  that  gave  me  a 
chance  to  get  my  wind.  And  when  I  was  ready  to 
light  up  I  felt  better,  and  I  was  breathing  right, 
so  that  I  could  talk  as  I  pleased  without  fighting 
for  breath. 

My  friend  the  major  proved  an  entertaining 
jhap,  and  a  talkative  one,  too,  for  all  his  seeming 
brusqueness.  He  pointed  out  the  spots  that  had 
been  made  famous  in  the  battle,  and  explained  to 
me  what  it  was  the  Canadians  had  done.  And  I 
saw  and  understood  better  than  ever  before  what 
a  great  feat  that  had  been,  and  how  heavily  it  had 
counted.  He  lent  me  his  binoculars,  too,  and  with 
them  I  swept  the  whole  valley  toward  Lens,  where 
the  great  French  coal  mines  are,  and  where  the 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  175 

Germans  have  been  under  steady  fire  so  long,  and 
have  been  hanging  on  by  their  eyelashes. 

It  was  not  the  place  I  should  choose,  ordinarily, 
to  do  a  bit  of  sight-seeing.  The  German  shells 
were  still  humming  through  the  air  above  us, 
though  not  quite  so  often  as  they  had.  But  there 
were  enough  of  them,  and  they  seemed  to  me  close 
enough  for  me  to  feel  the  wind  they  raised  as  they 
passed.  I  thought  for  sure  one  of  them  would 
come  along,  presently,  and  clip  my  ears  right  off. 
And  sometimes  I  felt  myself  ducking  my  head — 
as  if  that  would  do  me  any  good !  But  I  did  not 
think  about  it ;  I  would  feel  myself  doing  it,  with- 
out having  intended  to  do  anything  of  the  sort. 
I  was  a  bit  nervous,  I  suppose,  but  no  one  could 
be  really  scared  or  alarmed  in  the  unplumbable 
depths  of  calm  in  which  that  British  major  was 
plunged ! 

It  was  a  grand  view  I  had  of  the  valley,  but  it 
was  not  the  sort  of  thing  I  had  expected  to  see.  I 
knew  there  were  thousands  of  men  there,  and  I 
think  I  had  expected  to  see  men  really  fighting. 
But  there  was  nothing  of  the  sort.  Not  a  man 
could  I  see  in  all  the  valley.  They  were  under 
cover,  of  course.  When  I  stopped  to  think  about 
it,  that  was  what  I  should  have  expected,  of 
course.  If  I  could  have  seen  our  laddies  there 
below,  why,  the  Huns  could  have  seen  them  too. 
Ajid  that  would  never  have  done. 

I  could  hear  our  guns,  too,  now,  very  well. 


176  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

They  were  giving  voice  all  around  me,  but  never 
a  gun  could  I  see,  for  all  my  peering  and  search- 
ing around.  Even  the  battery  we  had  passed  be- 
low was  out  of  sight  now.  And  it  was  a  weird 
thing,  and  an  uncanny  thing  to  think  of  all  that 
riot  of  sound  around,  and  not  a  sight  to  be  had 
of  the  batteries  that  were  making  it ! 

Hogge  came  up  while  I  was  talking  to  the  major. 

"Hello!"  he  said.  "What  have  you  done  to 
your  knee,  Lauder?" 

I  looked  down  and  saw  a  trickle  of  blood  run- 
ning down,  below  my  knee.  It  was  bare,  of  course, 
because  I  wore  my  kilt. 

"Oh,  that's  nothing,"  I  said. 

I  knew  at  once  what  it  was.  I  remembered  that, 
as  I  stumbled  up  the  hill,  I  had  tripped  over  a  bit 
of  barbed  wire  and  scratched  my  leg.  And  so  I 
explained. 

"And  I  fell  into  a  shell-hole,  too,"  I  said.  "A 
wee  one,  as  they  go  around  here. ' '  But  I  laughed. 
"Still,  I'll  be  able  to  say  I  was  wounded  on  Vimy 
Eidge." 

I  glanced  at  the  major  as  I  said  that,  and  was 
half  sorry  I  had  made  the  poor  jest.  And  I  saw 
him  smile,  in  one  corner  of  his  mouth,  as  I  said  I 
had  been  "wounded."  It  was  the  corner  furthest 
from  me,  but  I  saw  it.  And  it  was  a  dry  smile,  a 
withered  smile.  I  could  guess  his  thought. 

"Wounded!"  he  must  have  said  to  himself, 
scornfully.  And  he  must  have  remembered  the 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  177 

real  wounds  the  Canadians  had  received  on  that 
hillside.  Aye,  I  could  guess  his  thought.  And  I 
shared  it,  although  I  did  not  tell  him  so.  But  I 
think  he  understood. 

He  was  still  sitting  there,  puffing  away  at  his 
old  pipe,  as  quiet  and  calm  and  imperturbable  as 
ever,  when  Captain  Godfrey  gathered  us  together 
to  go  on.  He  gazed  out  over  the  valley. 

He  was  a  man  to  be  remembered  for  a  long 
time,  that  major.  I  can  see  him  now,  in  my  mind's 
eye,  sitting  there,  brooding,  staring  out  toward 
Lens  and  the  German  lines.  And  I  think  that  if 
I  were  choosing  a  figure  for  some  great  sculptor 
to  immortalize,  to  typify  and  represent  the  superb, 
the  majestic  imperturbability  of  the  British  Em- 
pire in  time  of  stress  and  storm,  his  would  be  the 
one.  I  could  think  of  no  finer  figure  than  his  for 
such  a  statue.  You  would  see  him,  if  the  sculptor 
followed  my  thought,  sitting  in  front  of  his  shell- 
hole  on  Vimy  Eidge,  calm,  dispassionate,  devoted 
to  his  duty  and  the  day's  work,  quietly  giving  the 
directions  that  guided  the  British  guns  in  their 
work  of  blasting  the  Hun  out  of  the  refuge  he  had 
chosen  when  the  Canadians  had  driven  him  from 
the  spot  where  the  major  sat. 

It  was  easier  going  down  Vimy  Eidge  than  it 
had  been  coming  up,  but  it  was  hard  going  still. 
We  had  to  skirt  great,  gaping  holes  torn  by  mon- 
strous shells — shells  that  had  torn  the  very  guts 
out  of  the  little  hill. 


178  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

"We're  going  to  visit  another  battery,"  said 
Captain  Godfrey.  "I'll  tell  you  I  think  it's  the 
best  hidden  battery  on  the  whole  British  front! 
And  that's  saying  a  good  deal,  for  we've  learned 
a  thing  or  two  about  hiding  our  whereabouts  from 
Fritz.  He 's  a  curious  one,  Fritz  is,  but  we  try  not 
to  gratify  his  curiosity  any  more  than  we  must." 

"I'll  be  glad  to  see  more  of  the  guns,"  I  said. 

"Well,  here  you'll  see  more  than  guns.  The 
major  in  command  at  this  battery  we're  heading 
for  has  a  decoration  that  was  given  to  him  just 
for  the  way  he  hid  his  guns.  There 's  much  more 
than  fighting  that  a  man  has  to  do  in  this  war  if 
he's  to  make  good." 

As  we  went  along  I  kept  my  eyes  open,  trying 
to  get  a  peep  at  the  guns  before  Godfrey  should 
point  them  out  to  me.  I  could  hear  firing  going 
on  all  around  me,  but  there  was  so  much  noise 
that  my  ears  were  not  a  guide.  I  was  not  a  trained 
observer,  of  course ;  I  would  not  know  a  gun  posi- 
tion at  sight,  as  some  soldier  trained  to  the  work 
would  be  sure  to  do.  And  yet  I  thought  I  could 
tell  when  I  was  coming  to  a  great  battery.  I 
thought  so,  I  say! 

Again,  though  I  had  that  feeling  of  something 
weird  and  uncanny.  For  now,  as  we  walked  along, 
I  did  hear  the  guns,  and  I  was  sure,  from  the 
nature  of  the  sound,  that  we  were  coming  close  to 
them.  But,  as  I  looked  straight  toward  the  spot 
where  my  ears  told  me  that  they  must  be,  I  could 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  179 

see  nothing  at  all.  I  thought  that  perhaps  God- 
frey had  lost  his  way,  and  that  we  were  wander- 
ing along  the  wrong  path.  It  did  not  seem  likely, 
but  it  was  possible. 

And  then,  suddenly,  when  I  was  least  expecting 
it,  we  stopped. 

"Well — here  we  are!"  said  the  captain,  and 
grinned  at  our  amazement. 

And  there  we  were  indeed!  We  were  right 
among  the  guns  of  a  Canadian  battery,  and  the 
artillerymen  were  shouting  their  welcome,  for 
they  had  heard  that  I  was  coming,  and  recognized 
me  as  soon  as  they  saw  me.  But — how  had  we 
got  here1?  I  looked  around  me,  in  utter  amaze- 
ment. Even  now  that  I  had  come  to  the  battery 
I  could  not  understand  how  it  was  that  I  had  been 
deceived — how  that  battery  had  been  so  marvel- 
ously  concealed  that,  if  one  did  not  know  of  its 
existence  and  of  its  exact  location,  one  might  liter- 
ally stumble  over  it  in  broad  daylight ! 


CHAPTER  XVI 

IT  had  turned  very  hot,  now,  at  the  full  of  the 
day.  Indeed,  it  was  grilling  weather,  and 
there  in  the  battery,  in  a  hollow,  close  down 
beside  a  little  run  or  stream,  it  was  even  hotter 
than  on  the  shell-swept  bare  top  of  the  ridge.  So 
the  Canadian  gunners  had  stripped  down  for 
comfort.  Not  a  man  had  more  than  his  under- 
shirt on  above  his  trousers,  and  many  of  them 
were  naked  to  the  waist,  with  their  hide  tanned  to 
the  color  of  old  saddles. 

These  laddies  reminded  me  of  those  in  the  first 
battery  I  had  seen.  They  were  just  as  calm,  and 
just  as  dispassionate  as  they  worked  in  their  mill 
— it  might  well  have  been  a  mill  in  which  I  saw 
them  working.  Only  they  were  no  grinding  corn, 
but  death — death  for  the  Huns,  who  had  brought 
death  to  so  many  of  their  mates.  But  there  was 
no  excitement,  there  were  no  cries  of  hatred  and 
anger. 

They  were  hard  at  work.  Their  work,  it  seemed, 
never  came  to  an  end  or  even  to  a  pause.  The 
orders  rang  out,  in  a  sort  of  sing-song  voice. 
After  each  shot  a  man  who  sat  with  a  telephone 
strapped  about  his  head  called  out  corrections  of 
the  range,  in  figures  that  were  just  a  meaningless 

180 


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A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  181 

jumble  to  me,  although  they  made  sense  to  the 
men  who  listened  and  changed  the  pointing  of  the 
guns  at  each  order. 

Their  faces,  that,  like  their  bare  backs  and 
chests,  looked  like  tanned  leather,  were  all  grimy 
from  their  work  among  the  smoke  and  the  gases. 
And  through  the  grime  the  sweat  had  run  down 
like  little  rivers  making  courses  for  themselves  in 
the  soft  dirt  of  a  hillside.  They  looked  grotesque 
enough,  but  there  was  nothing  about  them  to  make 
me  feel  like  laughing,  I  can  tell  you!  And  they 
all  grinned  amiably  when  the  amazed  and  discon- 
certed Reverend  Harry  Lauder,  M.P.,  Tour  came 
tumbling  in  among  them.  We  all  felt  right  at 
hame  at  once — and  I  the  more  so  when  a  chap  I 
had  met  and  come  to  know  well  in  Toronto  during 
one  of  my  American  tours  came  over  and  gripped 
my  hand. 

"Aye,  but  it's  good  to  see  your  face,  Harry!" 
he  said,  as  he  made  me  welcome. 

This  battery  had  done  great  work  ever  since  it 
had  come  out.  No  battery  in  the  whole  army  had 
a  finer  record,  I  was  told.  And  no  one  needed  to 
tell  me  the  tale  of  its  losses.  Not  far  away  there 
was  a  little  cemetery,  filled  with  doleful  little 
crosses,  set  up  over  mounds  that  told  their  grim 
story  all  too  plainly  and  too  eloquently. 

The  battery  had  gone  through  the  Battle  of 
Vimy  Ridge  and  made  a  great  name  for  itself. 
And  now  it  was  set  down  upon  a  spot  that  had 


182  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

seen  some  of  the  very  bloodiest  of  the  fighting  on 
that  day.  I  saw  here,  for  the  first  time,  some  of 
the  most  horrible  things  that  the  war  holds. 
There  was  a  little  stream,  as  I  said,  that  ran 
through  the  hollow  in  which  the  battery  was 
placed,  and  that  stream  had  been  filled  with  blood, 
not  water,  on  the  day  of  the  battle. 

Everywhere,  here,  were  whitened  bones  of  men. 
In  the  wild  swirling  of  the  battle,  and  the  confu- 
sion of  digging  in  and  meeting  German  counter 
attacks  that  had  followed  it,  it  had  not  been  pos- 
sible to  bury  all  the  dead.  And  so  the  whitened 
bones  remained,  though  the  elements  had  long 
since  stripped  them  bare.  The  elements — and  the 
hungry  rats.  These  are  not  pretty  things  to  tell, 
but  they  are  true,  and  the  world  should  know  what 
war  is  to-day. 

I  almost  trod  upon  one  skeleton  that  remained 
complete.  It  was  that  of  a  huge  German  soldier 
— a  veritable  giant  of  a  man,  he  must  have  been. 
The  bones  of  his  feet  were  still  encased  in  his 
great  boots,  their  soles  heavily  studded  with  nails. 
Even  a  few  shreds  of  his  uniform  remained.  But 
the  flesh  was  all  gone.  The  sun  and  the  rats  and 
the  birds  had  accounted  for  the  last  morsel  of  it. 

Hundreds  of  years  from  now,  I  suppose,  the 
bones  that  were  strewn  along  that  ground  will 
still  be  being  turned  up  by  plows.  The  genera- 
tions to  come  who  live  there  will  never  lack  relics 
of  the  battle,  and  of  the  fighting  that  preceded  and 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 


followed  it.  They  will  find  bones,  and  shell  cases, 
and  bits  of  metal  of  all  sorts.  Rusty  bayonets  will 
be  turned  up  by  their  plowshares  ;  strange  coins, 
as  puzzling  as  some  of  those  of  Roman  times  that 
we  in  Britain  have  found,  will  puzzle  them.  Who 
can  tell  how  long  it  will  be  before  the  soil  about 
Vimy  Ridge  will  cease  to  give  up  its  relics? 

That  ground  had  been  searched  carefully  for 
everything  that  might  conceivably  be  put  to  use 
again,  or  be  made  fit  for  further  service.  The 
British  army  searches  every  battlefield  so  in  these 
days.  And  yet,  when  I  was  there,  many  weeks 
after  the  storm  of  fighting  had  passed  on,  and 
when  the  scavengers  had  done  their  work,  the 
ground  was  still  rather  thickly  strewn  with  odds 
and  ends  that  interested  me  vastly.  I  might  have 
picked  up  much  more  than  I  did.  But  I  could  not 
carry  so  very  much,  and,  too,  so  many  of  the 
things  brought  grisly  thoughts  to  my  mind  !  God 
knows  I  needed  no  reminders  of  the  war!  I  had 
a  reminder  in  my  heart,  that  never  left  me.  Still, 
I  took  some  few  things,  more  for  the  sake  of  the 
hame  folks,  who  might  not  see,  and  would,  surely, 
be  interested.  I  gathered  some  bayonets  for  my 
collection  —  somehow  they  seemed  the  things  I  was 
most  willing  to  take  along.  One  was  British,  one 
German  —  two  were  French. 

But  the  best  souvenir  of  all  I  got  at  Vimy  Ridge 
I  did  not  pick  up.  It  was  given  to  me  by  my 
friend,  the  grave  major  —  him  of  whom  I  would 


184  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

like  some  famous  sculptor  to  make  a  statue  as  he 
sat  at  his  work  of  observation.  That  was  a  club 
— a  wicked  looking  instrument.  This  club  had  a 
great  thick  head,  huge  in  proportion  to  its  length 
and  size,  and  this  head  was  studded  with  great, 
sharp  nails.  A  single  blow  from  it  would  finish 
the  strongest  man  that  ever  lived.  It  was  a  fit 
weapon  for  a  murderer — and  a  murderer  had 
wielded  it.  The  major  had  taken  it  from  a  Hun, 
who  had  meant  to  use  it — had,  doubtless,  used  it ! 
—to  beat  out  the  brains  of  wounded  men,  lying  on 
the  ground.  Many  of  those  clubs  were  taken  from 
the  Germans,  all  along  the  front,  both  by  the  Brit- 
ish and  the  French,  and  the  Germans  had  never 
made  any  secret  of  the  purpose  for  which  they 
were  intended.  Well,  they  picked  poor  men  to  try 
such  tactics  on  when  they  went  against  the  Cana- 
dians ! 

The  Canadians  started  no  such  work,  but  they 
were  quick  to  adopt  a  policy  of  give  and  take.  It 
was  the  Canadians  who  began  the  trench  raids  for 
which  the  Germans  have  such  a  fierce  distaste,  and 
after  they  had  learned  something  of  how  Fritz 
fought  the  Canadians  took  to  paying  him  back  in 
some  of  his  own  coin.  Not  that  they  matched  the 
deeds  of  the  Huns — only  a  Hun  could  do  that.  But 
the  Canadians  were  not  eager  to  take  prisoners. 
They  would  bomb  a  dugout  rather  than  take  its 
occupants  back.  And  a  dugout  that  has  been 
bombed  yields  few  living  men! 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  185 

Who  shall  blame  them?  Not  I — nor  any  other 
man  who  knows  what  lessons  in  brutality  and 
treachery  the  Canadians  have  had  from  the  Hun. 
It  was  the  Canadians,  near  Ypres,  who  went 
through  the  first  gas  attack — that  fearful  day 
when  the  Germans  were  closer  to  breaking  through 
than  they  ever  were  before  or  since.  I  shall  not 
set  down  here  all  the  tales  I  heard  of  the  atroci- 
ties of  the  Huns.  Others  have  done  that.  Men 
have  written  of  that  who  have  first-hand  knowl- 
edge, as  mine  cannot  be.  I  know  only  what  has 
been  told  to  me,  and  there  is  little  need  of  hearsay 
evidence.  There  is  evidence  enough  that  any  court 
would  accept  as  hanging  proof.  But  this  much 
it  is  right  to  say — that  no  troops  along  the  West- 
ern front  have  more  to  revenge  than  have  the 
Canadians. 

It  is  not  the  loss  of  comrades,  dearly  loved 
though  they  be,  that  breeds  hatred  among  the  sol- 
diers. That  is  a  part  of  war,  and  always  was. 
The  loss  of  friends  and  comrades  may  fire  the 
blood.  It  may  lead  men  to  risk  their  own  lives  in 
a  desperate  charge  to  get  even.  But  it  is  a  pain 
that  does  not  rankle  and  that  does  not  fester  like 
a  sore  that  will  not  heal.  It  is  the  tales  the  Cana- 
dians have  to  tell  of  sheer,  depraved  torture  and 
brutality  that  has  inflamed  them  to  the  pitch  of 
hatred  that  they  cherish.  It  has  seemed  as  if  the 
Germans  had  a  particular  grudge  against  the 
Canadians.  And  that,  indeed,  is  known  to  be  the 


186  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

case.  The  Germans  harbored  many  a  fond  illu- 
sion before  the  war.  They  thought  that  Britain 
would  not  fight,  first  of  all. 

And  then,  when  Britain  did  declare  war,  they 
thought  they  could  speedily  destroy  her  "con- 
temptible little  army."  Ah,  weel — they  did  come 
near  to  destroying  it !  But  not  until  it  had  helped 
to  balk  them  of  their  desire — not  until  it  had 
played  its  great  and  decisive  part  in  ruining  the 
plans  the  Hun  had  been  making  and  perfecting 
for  forty-four  long  years.  And  not  until  it  had 
served  as  a  dyke  behind  which  floods  of  men  in 
the  khaki  of  King  George  had  had  time  to  arm 
and  drill  to  rush  out  to  oppose  the  gray-green 
floods  that  had  swept  through  helpless  Belgium. 

They  had  other  illusions,  beside  that  major  one 
that  helped  to  wreck  them.  They  thought  there 
would  be  a  rebellion  and  civil  war  in  Ireland. 
They  took  too  seriously  the  troubles  of  the  early 
summer  of  1914,  when  Ulster  and  the  South  of  Ire- 
land were  snapping  and  snarling  at  each  other's 
throats.  They  looked  for  a  new  mutiny  in  India, 
which  should  keep  Britain's  hands  full.  They 
expected  strikes  at  home.  But,  above  all,  they 
were  sure  that  the  great,  self-governing  depend- 
encies of  Britain,  that  made  up  the  mighty  British 
Empire,  would  take  no  part  in  the  fight. 

Canada,  Australasia,  South  Africa — they  never 
reckoned  upon  having  to  cope  with  them.  These 
were  separate  nations,  they  thought,  independent 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  187 

in  fact  if  not  in  name,  which  would  seize  the  occa- 
sion to  separate  themselves  entirely  from  the 
mother  country.  In  South  Africa  they  were  sure 
that  there  would  be  smoldering  discontent  enough 
left  from  the  days  of  the  Boer  war  to  break  out 
into  a  new  flame  of  war  and  rebellion  at  this  great 
chance. 

And  so  it  drove  them  mad  with  fury  when  they 
learned  that  Canada  and  all  the  rest  had  gone  in, 
heart  and  soul.  And  when  even  their  poison  gas 
could  not  make  the  Canadians  yield;  when,  later 
still,  they  learned  that  the  Canadians  were  their 
match,  and  more  than  their  match,  in  every  phase 
of  the  great  game  of  war,  their  rage  led  them  to 
excesses  against  the  men  from  overseas  even  more 
damnable  than  those  that  were  their  general 
practice. 

These  Canadians,  who  were  now  my  hosts,  had 
located  their  guns  in  a  pit  triangular  in  shape. 
The  guns  were  mounted  at  the  corners  of  the  tri- 
angle, and  along  its  sides.  And  constantly,  while 
I  was  there  they  coughed  their  short,  sharp  coughs 
and  sent  a  spume  of  metal  flying  toward  the  Ger- 
man lines.  Never  have  I  seen  a  busier  spot.  And, 
remember — until  I  had  almost  fallen  into  that  pit, 
with  its  sputtering,  busy  guns,  I  had  not  been  able 
to  make  even  a  good  guess  as  to  where  they  were ! 
The  very  presence  of  this  workshop  of  death  was 
hidden  from  all  save  those  who  had  a  right  to  know 
of  it. 


188  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

It  was  a  masterly  piece  of  camouflage.  I  wish 
I  could  explain  to  you  how  the  effect  was  achieved. 
It  was  all  made  plain  to  me;  every  step  of  the 
process  was  explained,  and  I  cried  out  in  wonder 
and  in  admiration  at  the  clever  simplicity  of  it. 
But  that  is  one  of  the  things  I  may  not  tell.  I  saw 
many  things,  during  my  time  at  the  front,  that  the 
Germans  would  give  a  pretty  penny  to  know.  But 
none  of  the  secrets  that  I  learned  would  be  more 
valuable,  even  to-day,  than  that  of  that  hidden  bat- 
tery. And  so — I  must  leave  you  in  ignorance  as 
to  that. 

The  commanding  officer  was  most  kindly  and 
patient  in  explaining  matters  to  me. 

"We  can't  see  hide  nor  hair  of  our  targets  here, 
of  course,"  he  said,  "any  more  than  Fritz  can  see 
us.  We  get  all  our  ranges  and  the  records  of  all 
our  hits,  from  Normabell." 

I  looked  a  question,  I  suppose. 

"You  called  on  him,  I  think — up  on  the  Pimple. 
Major  Normabell,  D.S.O." 

That  was  how  I  learned  the  name  of  the  imper- 
turbable major  with  whom  I  had  smoked  a  pipe 
on  the  crest  of  Vimy  Ridge.  I  shall  always  re- 
member his  name  and  him.  I  saw  no  man  in 
France  who  made  a  livelier  impression  upon  my 
mind  and  my  imagination. 

"Aye,"  I  said.  "I  remember.  So  that's  his 
name — Normabell,  D.S.O.  I'll  make  a  note  of 
that." 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  189 

My  informant  smiled. 

"Normabell's  one  of  our  characters,"  he  said. 
1  'Well,  you  see  he  commands  a  goodish  bit  of 
country  there  where  he  sits.  And  when  he  needs 
them  he  has  aircraft  observations  to  help  him, 
too.  He's  our  pair  of  eyes.  We're  like  moles 
down  here,  we  gunners — but  he  does  all  our  seeing 
for  us.  And  he 's  in  constant  communication — he 
or  one  of  his  officers." 

I  wondered  where  all  the  shells  the  battery  was 
firing  were  headed  for.  And  I  learned  that  just 
then  it  was  paying  its  respects  particularly  to  a 
big  factory  building  just  west  of  Lens.  For  some 
reason  that  had  been  marked  for  destruction,  but 
it  had  been  reinforced  and  strengthened  so  that 
it  was  taking  a  lot  of  smashing  and  standing  a 
good  deal  more  punishment  than  anyone  had 
thought  it  could — which  was  reason  enough,  in 
itself,  to  stick  to  the  job  until  that  factory  was 
nothing  more  than  a  heap  of  dust  and  ruins. 

The  way  the  guns  kept  pounding  away  at  it 
made  me  think  of  firemen  in  a  small  town  drench- 
ing a  local  blaze  with  their  hose.  The  gunners 
were  just  so  eager  as  that.  And  I  could  almost  see 
that  factory,  crumbling  away.  Major  Normabell 
had  pointed  it  out  to  me,  up  on  the  ridge,  and  now 
I  knew  why.  I'll  venture  to  say  that  before  night 
the  eight-inch  howitzers  of  that  battery  had  ut- 
terly demolished  it,  and  so  ended  whatever  useful- 
ness it  had  had  for  the  Germans. 


190  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

It  was  cruel  business  to  be  knocking  the  towns 
and  factories  of  our  ally,  France,  to  bits  in  the 
fashion  that  we  were  doing  that  day — there  and 
at  many  another  point  along  the  front.  The  Huns 
are  fond  of  saying  that  much  of  the  destruction  in 
Northern  France  has  been  the  work  of  allied  artil- 
lery. True  enough — but  who  made  that  inevit- 
able? And  it  was  not  our  guns  that  laid  waste  a 
whole  countryside  before  the  German  retreat  in 
the  spring  of  1917,  when  the  Huns  ran  wild,  root- 
ing up  fruit  trees,  cutting  down  every  other  tree 
that  could  be  found,  and  doing  every  other  sort 
of  wanton  damage  and  mischief  their  hands  could 
find  to  do. 

' '  Hard  lines, ' '  said  the  battery  commander.  He 
shrugged  his  shoulders.  "No  use  trying  to  spare 
shells  here,  though,  even  on  French  towns.  The 
harder  we  smash  them  the  sooner  it'll  be  over. 
Look  here,  sir." 

He  pointed  out  the  men  who  sat,  their  telephone 
receivers  strapped  over  their  ears.  Each  served 
a  gun.  In  all  that  hideous  din  it  was  of  the  utmost 
importance  that  they  should  hear  correctly  every 
word  and  figure  that  came  to  them  over  the  wire 
— a  part  of  that  marvelously  complete  telephone 
and  telegraph  system  that  has  been  built  for  and 
by  the  British  army  in  France. 

"They  get  corrections  on  every  shot,"  he  told 
me.  "The  guns  are  altered  in  elevation  according 
to  what  they  hear.  The  range  is  changed,  and  the 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  191 

pointing,  too.  "We  never  see  old  Fritz — but  we 
know  he's  getting  the  visiting  cards  we  send 
him." 

They  were  amazingly  calm,  those  laddies  at  the 
telephones.  In  all  that  hideous,  never-ending  din, 
they  never  grew  excited.  Their  voices  were  calm 
and  steady  as  they  repeated  the  orders  that  came 
to  them.  I  have  seen  girls  at  hotel  switchboards, 
expert  operators,  working  with  conditions  made 
to  their  order,  who  grew  infinitely  more  excited  at 
a  busy  time,  when  many  calls  were  coming  in  and 
going  out.  Those  men  might  have  been  at  home, 
talking  to  a  friend  of  their  plans  for  an  evening 's 
diversion,  for  all  the  nervousness  or  fussiness  they 
showed. 

Up  there,  on  the  Pimple,  I  had  seen  Normabell, 
the  eyes  of  the  battery.  Here  I  was  watching  its 
ears.  And,  to  finish  the  metaphor,  to  work  it  out, 
I  was  listening  to  its  voice.  Its  brazen  tongues 
were  giving  voice  continually.  The  guns — after 
all,  everything  else  led  up  to  them.  They  were  the 
reason  for  all  the  rest  of  the  machinery  of  the  bat- 
tery, and  it  was  they  who  said  the  last  short 
word. 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  rough  joking  and 
laughter  in  the  battery.  The  Canadian  gunners 
took  their  task  lightly  enough,  though  their  work 
was  of  the  hardest — and  of  the  most  dangerous, 
too.  But  jokes  ran  from  group  to  group,  from 
gun  to  gun.  They  were  constantly  kidding  one 


192  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

another,  as  an  American  would  say,  I  think.  If  a 
correction  came  for  one  gun  that  showed  there  had 
been  a  mistake  in  sighting  after  the  last  orders — 
if,  that  is,  the  gunners,  and  not  the  distant  ob- 
servers, were  plainly  at  fault — there  would  be  a 
good-natured  outburst  of  chaffing  from  all  the 
others. 

But,  though  such  a  spirit  of  lightness  prevailed, 
there  was  not  a  moment  of  loafing.  These  men 
were  engaged  in  a  grim,  deadly  task,  and  every 
once  in  a  while  I  would  catch  a  black,  purposeful 
look  in  a  man's  eyes  that  made  me  realize  that, 
under  all  the  light  talk  and  laughter  there  was  a 
perfect  realization  of  the  truth.  They  might  not 
show,  on  the  surface,  that  they  took  life  and  their 
work  seriously.  Ah,  no!  They  preferred,  after 
the  custom  of  their  race,  to  joke  with  death. 

And  so  they  were  doing  quite  literally.  The 
Germans  knew  perfectly  well  that  there  was  a  bat- 
tery somewhere  near  the  spot  where  I  had  found 
my  gunners.  Only  the  exact  location  was  hidden 
from  them,  and  they  never  ceased  their  efforts  to 
determine  that.  Fritz's  airplanes  were  always 
trying  to  sneak  over  to  get  a  look.  An  airplane 
was  the  only  means  of  detection  the  Canadians 
feared.  No — I  will  not  say  they  feared  it !  The 
word  fear  did  not  exist  for  that  battery!  But  it 
was  the  only  way  in  which  there  was  a  tolerable 
chance,  even,  for  Fritz  to  locate  them,  and,  for  the 
sake  of  the  whole  operation  at  that  point,  as  well 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  193 

as  for  their  own  interest,  they  were  eager  to  avoid 

that. 

German  airplanes  were  always  trying  to  sneak 
over,  I  say,  but  nearly  always  our  men  of  the 
Eoyal  Flying  Corps  drove  them  back.  We  came 
as  close,  just  then,  to  having  command  of  the  air 
in  that  sector  as  any  army  does  these  days.  You 
cannot  quite  command  or  control  the  air.  A  few 
hostile  flyers  can  get  through  the  heaviest  barrage 
and  the  staunchest  air  patrol.  And  so,  every  once 
in  a  while,  an  alarm  would  sound,  and  all  hands 
would  crane  their  necks  upward  to  watch  an  air- 
plane flying  above  with  an  iron  cross  painted  upon 
its  wings. 

Then,  and,  as  a  rule,  then  only,  fire  would  cease 
for  a  few  minutes.  There  was  far  less  chance  of 
detection  when  the  guns  were  still.  At  the  height 
at  which  our  archies — so  the  anti-aircraft  guns 
are  called  by  Tommy  Atkins — forced  the  Boche  to 
fly  there  was  little  chance  of  his  observers  picking 
out  this  battery,  at  least,  against  the  ground.  If 
the  guns  were  giving  voice  that  chance  was 
tripled — and  so  they  stopped,  at  such  times,  until 
a  British  flyer  had  had  time  to  engage  the  Hun 
and  either  bring  him  down  or  send  him  scurrying 
for  the  safe  shelter  behind  his  own  lines. 

Fritz,  in  the  air,  liked  to  have  the  odds  with 
him,  as  a  rule.  It  was  exceptional  to  find  a  Ger- 
man flyer  like  Boelke  who  really  went  in  for 
single-handed  duels  in  the  air.  As  a  rule  they  pre- 


194  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

ferred  to  attack  a  single  plane  with  half  a  dozen, 
and  so  make  as  sure  as  they  could  of  victory  at  a 
minimum  of  risk.  But  that  policy  did  not  always 
work — sometimes  the  lone  British  flyer  came  out 
ahead,  despite  the  odds  against  him. 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  firing  on  general 
principles  from  Fritz.  His  shells  came  wandering 
querulously  about,  striking  on  every  side  of  the 
battery.  Occasionally,  of  course,  there  was  a  hit 
that  was  direct,  or  nearly  so.  And  then,  as  a  rule, 
a  new  mound  or  two  would  appear  in  the  little 
cemetery,  and  a  new  set  of  crosses  that,  for  a  few 
days,  you  might  easily  enough  have  marked  for 
new  because  they  would  not  be  weathered  yet.  But 
such  hits  were  few  and  far  between,  and  they  were 
lucky,  casual  shots,  of  which  the  Germans  them- 
selves did  not  have  the  satisfaction  of  knowing. 

"Of  course,  if  they  get  our  range,  really,  and 
find  out  all  about  us,  we'll  have  to  move,"  said 
the  officer  in  command.  "That  would  be  a  bore, 
but  it  couldn't  be  helped.  We're  a  fixed  target, 
you  see,  as  soon  as  they  know  just  where  we  are, 
and  they  can  turn  loose  a  battery  of  heavy  howitz- 
ers against  us  and  clear  us  out  of  here  in  no  time. 
But  we're  pretty  quick  movers  when  we  have  to 
move!  It's  great  sport,  in  a  way  too,  sometimes. 
We  leave  all  the  camouflage  behind,  and  some- 
times Fritz  will  spend  a  week  shelling  a  position 
that  was  moved  away  at  the  first  shell  that  came 
as  if  it  meant  they  really  were  on  to  us." 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  195 

I  wondered  liow  a  battery  commander  would 
determine  the  difference  between  a  casual  hit  and 
the  first  shell  of  a  bombardment  definitely  planned 
and  accurately  placed. 

''You  can  tell,  as  a  rule,  if  you  know  the  game," 
he  said.  "  There  '11  be  searching  shells,  you  see. 
There  '11  be  one  too  far,  perhaps.  And  then,  after 
a  pretty  exact  interval,  there  '11  be  another,  maybe 
a  bit  short.  Then  one  to  the  left — and  then  to 
the  right.  By  that  time  we're  off  as  a  rule — we 
don't  wait  for  the  one  that  will  be  scored  a  hit! 
If  you're  quick,  you  see,  you  can  beat  Fritz  to  it 
by  keeping  your  eyes  open,  and  being  ready  to 
move  in  a  hurry  when  he 's  got  a  really  good  argu- 
ment to  make  you  do  it." 

But  while  I  was  there,  while  Fritz  was  inquisi- 
tive enough,  his  curiosity  got  him  nowhere.  There 
were  no  casual  hits,  even,  and  there  was  nothing 
to  make  the  battery  feel  that  it  must  be  making 
ready  for  a  quick  trek. 

Was  that  no  a  weird,  strange  game  of  hide  and 
seek  that  I  watched  being  played  at  Vimy  Ridge? 
It  gave  me  the  creeps,  that  idea  of  battling  with 
an  enemy  you  could  not  see !  It  must  be  hard,  at 
times,  I  think,  for,  the  gunners  to  realize  that  they 
are  actually  at  war.  But,  no — there  is  always  the 
drone  and  the  squawking  of  the  German  shells, 
and  the  plop-plop,  from  time  to  time,  as  one  finds 
its  mark  in  the  mud  nearby.  But  to  think  of 
shooting  always  at  an  enemy  you  cannot  see ! 


196  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

It  brought  to  my  mind  a  tale  I  had  heard  at 
hame  in  Scotland.  There  was  a  hospital  in  Glas- 
gow, and  there  a  man  who  had  gone  to  see  a  friend 
stopped,  suddenly,  in  amazement,  at  the  side  of  a 
cot.  He  looked  down  at  features  that  were  famil- 
iar to  him.  The  man  in  the  cot  was  not  looking 
at  him,  and  the  visitor  stood  gaping,  staring  at  him 
in  the  utmost  astonishment  and  doubt. 

"I  say,  man,"  he  asked,  at  last,  "are  ye  not 
Tamson,  the  baker?" 

The  wounded  man  opened  his  eyes,  and  looked 
up,  weakly. 

* '  Aye, ' '  he  said.  "  I  'm  Tamson,  the  baker. ' ' 

His  voice  was  weak,  and  he  looked  tired.  But 
he  looked  puzzled,  too. 

"Weel,  Tamson,  man,  what's  the  matter  wi' 
ye  ?  "  asked  the  other.  ' '  I  didna  hear  that  ye  were 
sick  or  hurt.  How  comes  it  ye  are  here?  Can 
it  be  that  ye  ha'  been  to  the  war,  man,  and  we  not 
hearing  of  it,  at  all?" 

"Aye,  I  think  so,"  said  Tamson,  still  weakly, 
but  as  if  he  were  rather  glad  of  a  chance  to  talk, 
at  that. 

"Ye  think  so?"  asked  his  friend,  in  greater 
astonishment  than  ever.  "Man,  if  ye've  been  to 
the  war  do  ye  not  know  it  for  sure  and  certain?" 

"Well,  I  will  tell  ye  how  it  is,"  said  Tamson, 
very  slowly  and  wearily.  "I  was  in  the  reserve, 
do  ye  ken.  And  I  was  standin'  in  front  of  my 
hoose  one  day  in  August,  thinkin'  of  nothin'  at 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  197 

all.  I  marked  a  man  who  was  coming  doon  the 
street,  wi '  a  blue  paper  in  his  hand,  and  studyin '  the 
numbers  on  the  doorplates.  But  I  paid  no  great 
heed  to  him  until  he  stopped  and  spoke  to  me. 

"He  had  stopped  outside  my  hoose  and  looked 
at  the  number,  and  then  at  his  blue  paper.  And 
then  he  turned  to  me. 

"  'Are  ye  Tamson,  the  baker!'  he  asked  me — 
just  as  ye  asked  me  that  same  question  the  noo. 

"And  I  said  to  him,  just  as  I  said  it  to  ye,  'Aye, 
I'm  Tamson,  the  baker.' 

"  'Then  it's  Hamilton  Barracks  for  ye,  Tam- 
son, '  he  said,  and  handed  me  the  blue  paper. 

"Four  hours  from  the  time  when  he  handed  me 
the  blue  paper  in  front  of  my  hoose  in  Glasgow 
I  was  at  Hamilton  Barracks.  In  twelve  hours  I 
was  in  Southhampton.  In  twenty  hours  I  was  in 
France.  And  aboot  as  soon  as  I  got  there  I  was 
in  a  lot  of  shooting  and  running  this  way  and  that 
that  they  ha'  told  me  since  was  the  Battle  of  the 
Marne. 

"And  in  twenty-four  hours  more  I  was  on  my 
way  back  to  Glasgow!  In  forty-eight  hours  I 
woke  up  in  Stobe  Hill  Infirmary  and  the  nurse  was 
saying  in  my  ear :  'Ye 're  all  richt  the  noon,  Tam- 
son. We  ha'  only  just  amputated  your  leg!' 

" So  I  think  I  ha'  been  to  the  war,  but  I  can  only 
say  I  think  so.  I  only  know  what  I  was  told — 
that  ha'  never  seen  a  damn  German  yet!" 

That  is  a  true  story  of  Tamson  the  baker.    And 


198  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

his  experience  has  actually  been  shared  by  many  a 
poor  fellow — and  by  many  another  who  might 
have  counted  himself  lucky  if  he  had  lost  no  more 
than  a  leg,  as  Tamson  did. 

But  the  laddies  of  my  battery,  though  they  were 
shooting  now  at  Germans  they  could  not  see,  had 
had  many  a  close  up  view  of  Fritz  in  the  past,  and 
expected  many  another  in  the  future.  Maybe  they 
will  get  one,  some  time,  after  the  fashion  of  the 
company  of  which  my  boy  John  once  told  me. 

The  captain  of  this  company — a  Hieland  com- 
pany, it  was,  though  not  of  John's  regiment — had 
spent  must  of  his  time  in  London  before  the  war, 
and  belonged  to  several  clubs,  which,  in  those 
days,  employed  many  Germans  as  servants  and 
waiters.  He  was  a  big  man,  and  he  had  a  deep, 
bass  voice,  so  that  he  roared  like  the  bull  of  Bas- 
han  when  he  had  a  mind  to  raise  it  for  all  to  hear. 

One  day  things  were  dull  in  his  sector.  The 
front  line  trench  was  not  far  from  that  of  the  Ger- 
mans, but  there  was  no  activity  beyond  that  of  the 
snipers,  and  the  Germans  were  being  so  cautious 
that  ours  were  getting  mighty  few  shots.  The 
captain  was  bored,  and  so  were  the  men. 

"How  would  you  like  a  pot  shot,  lads?"  he 
asked. 

"Fine!"  came  the  answer.    "Fine,  sir!" 

"Very  well,"  said  the  captain.  "Get  ready 
with  your  rifles,  and  keep  your  eyes  on  yon 
trench." 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  199 

It  was  not  more  than  thirty  yards  away — point- 
blank  range.  The  captain  waited  until  they  were 
ready.  And  then  his  voice  rang  out  in  its  loudest, 
most  commanding  roar. 

" Waiter!"  he  shouted. 

Forty  helmets  popped  up  over  the  German 
parapet,  and  a  storm  of  bullets  swept  them  away ! 


CHAPTER  XVII 

IT  was  getting  late — for  men  who  had  had  so 
early  a  breakfast  as  we  had  had  to  make  to 
get  started  in  good  time.  And  just  as  I  was 
beginning  to  feel  hungry — odd,  it  seemed  to  me, 
that  such  a  thing  as  lunch  should  stay  in  my  mind 
in  such  surroundings  and  when  so  many  vastly 
more  important  things  were  afoot! — the  major 
looked  at  his  wrist  watch. 

"By  Jove!"  he  said,  "Lunch  time!  Gentle- 
men— you'll  accept  such  hospitality  as  we  can 
offer  you  at  our  officer's  mess?" 

There  wasn't  any  question  about  acceptance! 
We  all  said  we  were  delighted,  and  we  meant  it. 
I  looked  around  for  a  hut  or  some  such  place,  or 
even  for  a  tent,  and,  seeing  nothing  of  the  sort, 
wondered  where  we  might  be  going  to  eat.  I  soon 
found  out.  The  major  led  the  way  underground, 
into  a  dugout.  This  was  the  mess.  It  was  hard 
by  the  guns,  and  in  a  hole  that  had  been  dug  out, 
quit  literally.  Here  there  was  a  certain  degree 
of  safety.  In  these  dugouts  every  phase  of  the 
battery's  life  except  the  actual  serving  of  the  guns 
went  on.  Officers  and  men  alike  ate  and  slept  in 
them. 

They  were  much  snugger  within  than  you  might 

200 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  201 

fancy.  A  lot  of  the  men  had  given  homelike 
touches  to  their  habitations.  Pictures  cut  from 
the  illustrated  papers  at  home,  which  are  such 
prime  favorites  with  all  the  Tommies  made  up  a 
large  part  of  the  decorative  scheme.  Pictures  of 
actresses  predominated;  the  Tommies  didn't  go 
in  for  war  pictures.  Indeed,  there  is  little  disposi- 
tion to  hammer  the  war  home  at  you  in  a  dugout. 
The  men  don't  talk  about  it  or  think  about,  save  as 
they  must ;  you  hear  less  talk  about  the  war  along 
the  front  than  you  do  at  home.  I  heard  a  story 
at  Vimy  Eidge  of  a  Tommy  who  had  come  back 
to  the  trenches  after  seeing  Blighty  for  the  first 
time  in  months. 

''Hello,  Bill,"  said  one  of  his  mates.  "Back 
again,  are  you?  How's  things  in  Blighty?" 

"Oh,  all  right,  "said  Bill. 

Then  he  looked  around.  He  pricked  his  ears  as 
a  shell  whined  above  him.  And  he  took  out  his 
pipe  and  stuffed  it  full  of  tobacco,  and  lighted  it, 
and  sat  back.  He  sighed  in  the  deepest  content 
as  the  smoke  began  to  curl  upward. 

"Bli'me,  Bill — I'd  say,  to  look  at  you,  you  was 
glad  to  be  back  here ! ' '  said  his  mate,  astonished. 

"Well,  I  ain't  so  sorry,  and  that's  a  fact,"  said 
Bill.  "I  tell  you  how  it  is,  Alf.  Back  there  in 
Blighty  they  don't  talk  about  nothing  but  this 
bloody  war.  I'm  fair  fed  up  with  it,  that  I  am! 
I'm  glad  to  be  back  here,  where  I  don't  have  to 
'ear  about  the  war  every  bleedin'  minute!" 


202  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

That  story  sounds  far  fetched  to  you,  perhaps, 
but  it  isn't.  "War  talk  is  shop  talk  to  the  men  who 
are  fighting  it  and  winning  it,  and  it  is  perfectly 
true  and  perfectly  reasonable,  too,  that  they  like 
to  get  away  from  it  when  they  can,  just  as  any  man 
likes  to  get  away  from  the  thought  of  his  business 
or  his  work  when  he  isn't  at  the  office  or  the  fac- 
tory or  the  shop. 

Captain  Godfrey  explained  to  me,  as  we  went 
into  the  mess  hall  for  lunch,  that  the  dugouts  were 
really  pretty  safe.  Of  course  there  were  dangers 
— where  are  there  not  along  that  strip  of  land 
that  runs  from  the  North  Sea  to  Switzerland  in 
France  and  Belgium? 

"A  direct  hit  from  a  big  enough  shell  would 
bury  us  all,"  he  said.  "But  that's  not  likely — 
the  chances  are  all  against  it.  And,  even  then, 
we'd  have  a  chance.  I've  seen  men  dug  out  alive 
from  a  hole  like  this  after  a  shell  from  one  of  their 
biggest  howitzers  had  landed  square  upon  it." 

But  I  had  no  anxiety  to  form  part  of  an  experi- 
ment to  prove  the  truth  or  the  falsity  of  that  sug- 
gestion !  I  was  glad  to  know  that  the  chances  of 
a  shell's  coming  along  were  pretty  slim. 

Conditions  were  primitive  at  that  mess.  The 
refinements  of  life  were  lacking,  to  be  sure — but 
who  cared?  Certainly  the  hungry  members  of  the 
Eeverend  Harry  Lauder,  M.P.,  Tour  did  not! 
We  ate  from  a  rough  deal  table,  sitting  on  rude 
benches  that  had  a  decidedly  home-made  look. 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  203 

But — we  had  music  with  our  meals,  just  like  the 
folks  in  London  at  the  Savoy  or  in  New  York  at 
Sherry's!  It  was  the  incessant  thunder  of  the 
guns  that  served  as  the  musical  accompaniment  of 
our  lunch,  and  I  was  already  growing  to  love  that 
music.  I  could  begin,  now,  to  distinguish  degrees 
of  sound  and  modulations  of  all  sorts  in  the 
mighty  diapason  of  the  cannon.  It  was  as  if  a 
conductor  were  leading  an  orchestra,  and  as  if  it 
responded  instantly  to  every  suggestion  of  his 
baton. 

There  was  not  much  variety  to  the  food,  but 
there  was  plenty  of  it,  and  it  was  good.  There 
was  bully  beef,  of  course ;  that  is  the  real  staff  of 
life  for  the  British  army.  And  there  were  pota- 
toes, in  plentiful  supply,  and  bread  and  butter, 
and  tea — there  is  always  tea  where  Tommy  or  his 
officers  are  about!  There  was  a  lack  of  table 
ware;  a  dainty  soul  might  not  have  liked  the 
thought  of  spreading  his  butter  on  his  bread  with 
his  thumb,  as  we  had  to  do.  But  I  was  too  hungry 
to  be  fastidious,  myself. 

Because  the  mess  had  guests  there  was  a  special 
dish  in  our  honor.  One  of  the  men  had  gone  over 
— at  considerable  risk  of  his  lif ex  as  I  learned  later 
— to  the  heap  of  stones  and  dust  that  had  once 
been  the  village  of  Givenchy.  There  he  had  found 
a  lot  of  gooseberries.  The  French  call  them  gros- 
sets,  as  we  in  Scotland  do,  too — although  the 
pronunciation  of  the  word  is  different  in  the  two 


204*  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

languages,  of  course.  There  had  been  gardens 
around  the  houses  of  Givenchy  once,  before  the 
place  had  been  made  into  a  desert  of  rubble  and 
brickdust.  And,  somehow,  life  had  survived  in 
those  bruised  and  battered  gardens,  and  the  deli- 
cious mess  of  gooseberries  that  we  had  for  dessert 
stood  as  proof  thereof. 

The  meal  was  seasoned  by  good  talk.  I  love 
to  hear  the  young  British  officers  talk.  It  is  a 
liberal  education.  They  have  grown  so  wise,  those 
boys!  Those  of  them  who  come  back  when  the 
war  is  over  will  have  the  world  at  their  feet,  in- 
deed. Nothing  will  be  able  to  stop  them  or  to 
check  them  in  their  rise.  They  have  learned  every 
great  lesson  that  a  man  must  learn  if  he  is  to  suc- 
ceed in  the  affairs  of  life.  Self  control  is  theirs, 
and  an  infinite  patience,  and  a  dogged  determina- 
tion that  refuses  to  admit  that  there  are  any  things 
that  a  man  cannot  do  if  he  only  makes  up  his  mind 
that  he  must  and  will  do  them.  For  the  British 
army  has  accomplished  the  impossible,  time  after 
time ;  it  has  done  things  that  men  knew  could  not 
be  done. 

And  so  we  sat  and  talked,  as  we  smoked,  after 
the  meal,  until  the  major  rose,  at  last,  and  invited 
me  to  walk  around  the  battery  again  with  him.  I 
could  ask  questions  now,  having  seen  the  men  at 
work,  and  he  explained  many  things  I  wanted  to 
know — and  which  Fritz  would  like  to  know,  too, 
to  this  day !  But  above  all  I  was  fascinated  by  the 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  205 

work  of  the  gunners.  I  kept  trying,  in  my  mind's 
eye,  to  follow  the  course  of  the  shells  that  were 
dispatched  so  calmly  upon  their  errands  of  de- 
struction. My  imagination  played  with  the 
thought  of  what  they  were  doing  at  the  other  end 
of  their  swift  voyage  through  the  air.  I  pictured 
the  havoc  that  must  be  wrought  when  one  made  a 
clean  hit. 

And,  suddenly,  I  was  swept  by  that  same  almost 
irresistible  desire  to  be  fighting  myself  that  had 
come  over  me  when  I  had  seen  the  other  battery. 
If  I  could  only  play  my  part !  If  I  could  fire  even 
a  single  shot — if  I,  with  my  own  hands,  could  do 
that  much  against  those  who  had  killed  my  boy! 
And  then,  incredulously,  I  heard  the  words  in  my 
ear.  It  was  the  major. 

"Would  you  like  to  try  a  shot,  Harry?"  he 
asked  me. 

Would  I?  I  stared  at  him.  I  couldn't  believe 
my  ears.  It  was  as  if  he  had  read  my  thoughts. 
I  gasped  out  some  sort  of  an  affirmative.  My 
blood  was  boiling  at  the  very  thought,  and  the 
sweat  started  from  my  pores. 

"All  right — nothing  easier!"  said  the  major, 
smiling.  "I  had  an  idea  you  were  wanting  to 
take  a  hand,  Harry. ' ' 

He  led  me  toward  one  of  the  guns,  where  the 
sweating  crew  was  especially  active,  as  it  seemed 
to  me.  They  grinned  at  me  as  they  saw  me 
coming. 


206  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

' '  Here 's  old  Harry  Lander  come  to  take  a  crack 
at  them  himself,"  I  heard  one  man  say  to  another. 

"Good  for  him!  The  more  the  merrier!"  an- 
swered his  mate.  He  was  an  American — would 
ye  no  know  it  from  his  speech? 

I  was  trembling  with  eagerness.  I  wondered  if 
my  shot  would  tell.  I  tried  to  visualize  its  conse- 
quences. It  might  strike  some  vital  spot.  It  might 
kill  some  man  whose  life  was  of  the  utmost  value 
to  the  enemy.  It  might — it  might  do  anything! 
And  I  knew  that  my  shot  would  be  watched ;  Nor- 
mabell,  sitting  up  there  on  the  Pimple  in  his  little 
observatory,  would  watch  it,  as  he  did  all  of  that 
battery's  shots.  Would  be  make  a  report? 

Everything  was  made  ready.  The  gun  recoiled 
from  the  previous  shot;  swiftly  it  was  swabbed 
out.  A  new  shell  was  handed  up ;  I  looked  it  over 
tenderly.  That  was  my  shell!  I  watched  the 
men  as  they  placed  it  and  saw  it  disappear  with  a 
jerk.  Then  came  the  swift  sighting  of  the  gun, 
the  almost  inperceptible  corrections  of  elevation 
and  position. 

They  showed  me  my  place.  After  all,  it  was  the 
simplest  of  matters  to  fire  even  the  biggest  of 
guns.  I  had  but  to  pull  a  lever.  All  morning  I 
had  been  watching  men  do  that.  I  knew  it  was 
but  a  perfunctory  act.  But  I  could  not  feel  that ! 
I  was  thrilled  and  excited  as  I  had  never  been  in 
all  my  life  before. 

"All  ready!    Fire!" 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  207 

The  order  rang  in  my  ears.  And  I  pulled  the 
lever,  as  hard  as  I  could.  The  great  gun  sprang 
into  life  as  I  moved  the  lever.  I  heard  the  roar 
of  the  explosion,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  it  was 
a  louder  bark  than  any  gun  I  had  heard  had  given ! 
It  was  not,  of  course,  and  so,  down  in  my  heart,  I 
knew.  There  was  no  shade  of  variation  between 
that  shot  and  all  the  others  that  had  been  fired. 
But  it  pleased  me  to  think  so — it  pleases  me,  some- 
times, to  think  so  even  now.  Just  as  it  pleases  me 
to  think  that  that  long  snouted  engine  of  war  pro- 
pelled that  shell,  under  my  guiding  hand,  with 
unwonted  accuracy  and  effectiveness !  Perhaps  I 
was  childish,  to  feel  as  I  did;  indeed,  I  have  no 
doubt  that  that  was  so.  But  I  dinna  care ! 

There  was  no  report  by  telephone  from  Norma- 
bell  about  that  particular  shot;  I  hung  about  a 
while,  by  the  telephone  listeners,  hoping  one  would 
come.  And  it  disappointed  me  that  no  attention 
was  paid  to  that  shot. 

"Probably  simply  means  it  went  home,"  said 
Godfrey.  "A  shot  that  acts  just  as  it  should 
doesn't  get  reported." 

But  I  was  disappointed,  just  the  same.  And 
yet  the  sensation  is  one  I  shall  never  forget,  and 
I  shall  never  cease  to  be  glad  that  the  major  gave 
me  my  chance.  The  most  thrilling  moment  was 
that  of  the  recoil  of  the  great  gun.  I  felt  exactly 
as  one  does  when  one  dives  into  deep  water  from 
a  considerable  height. 


208  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

"Good  work,  Harry!"  said  the  major,  warmly, 
when  I  had  stepped  down.  "I'll  wager  you  wiped 
out  a  bit  of  the  German  trenches  with  that  shot! 
I  think  I'll  draft  you  and  keep  you  here  as  a  gun- 
ner!" 

And  the  officers  and  men  all  spoke  in  the  same 
way,  smiling  as  they  did  so.  But  I  hae  me  doots ! 
I'd  like  to  think  I  did  real  damage  with  my  one 
shot,  but  I'm  afraid  my  shell  was  just  one  of  those 
that  turned  up  a  bit  of  dirt  and  made  one  of  those 
small  brown  eruptions  I  had  seen  rising  on  all 
s'ides  along  the  German  lines  as  I  had  sat  and 
smoked  my  pipe  with  Normabell  earlier  in  the  day. 

"Well,  anyway,"  I  said,  exultingly,  "that's 
that !  I  hope  I  got  two  for  my  one,  at  least ! ' ' 

But  my  exultation  did  not  last  long.,  I  re- 
flected upon  the  inscrutability  of  war  and  of  this 
deadly  fighting  that  was  going  on  all  about  me. 
How  casual  a  matter  was  this  sending  out  of  a 
shell  that  could,  in  a  flash  of  time,  obliterate  all 
that  lived  in  a  wide  circle  about  where  it  chanced 
to  strike!  The  pulling  of  a  lever — that  was  all 
that  I  had  done !  And  at  any  moment  a  shell  some 
German  gunner  had  sent  winging  its  way  through 
the  air  in  precisely  that  same,  casual  fashion 
might  come  tearing  into  this  quiet  nook,  guided  by 
some  chance,  lucky  for  him,  and  wipe  out  the 
major,  and  all  the  pleasant  boys  with  whom  I  had 
broken  bread  just  now,  and  the  sweating  gunners 
who  had  cheered  me  on  as  I  fired  my  shot ! 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  209 

I  was  to  give  a  concert  for  this  battery,  and  I 
felt  that  it  was  time,  now,  for  it  to  begin.  I  could 
see,  too,  that  the  men  were  growing  a  bit  impatient. 
And  so  I  said  that  I  was  ready. 

"Then  come  along  to  our  theater,"  said  the 
major,  and  grinned  at  my  look  of  astonishment. 

"Oh,  we've  got  a  real  amphitheater  for  you, 
such  as  the  Greeks  used  for  the  tragedies  of 
Sophocles!"  he  said.  "There  it  is!" 

He  had  not  stretched  the  truth.  It  was  a  superb 
theater — a  great,  crater-like  hole  in  the  ground. 
Certainly  it  was  as  well  ventilated  a  show  house 
as  you  could  hope  for,  and  I  found,  when  the  time 
came,  that  the  acoustics  were  splendid.  I  went 
down  into  the  middle  of  the  hole,  with  Hogge  and 
Adam,  who  had  become  part  of  my  company,  and 
the  soldiers  grouped  themselves  about  its  rim. 

Before  we  left  Boulogne  a  definite  programme 
had  been  laid  out  for  the  Reverend  Harry  Lauder, 
M.P.,  Tour.  We  had  decided  that  we  would  get 
better  results  by  adopting  a  programme  and  stick- 
ing to  it  at  all  our  meetings  or  concerts.  So,  at 
all  the  assemblies  that  we  gathered,  Hogge  opened 
proceedings  by  talking  to  the  men  about  pensions, 
the  subject  in  which  he  was  so  vitally  interested, 
and  in  which  he  had  done  and  was  doing  such  mag- 
nificent work.  Adam  would  follow  him  with  a 
talk  about  the  war  and  its  progress. 

He  was  a  splendid  speaker,  was  Adam.  He  had 
all  the  eloquence  of  the  fine  preacher  that  he  was, 


210  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

but  he  did  not  preach  to  the  lads  in  the  trenches — 
not  he !  He  told  them  about  the  war,  and  about 
the  way  the  folks  at  hame  in  Britain  were  backing 
them  up.  He  talked  about  war  loans  and  food 
conservation,  and  made  them  understand  that  it 
was  not  they  alone  who  were  doing  the  fighting. 
It  was  a  cheering  and  an  inspiring  talk  he  gave 
them,  and  he  got  good  round  applause  wherever  he 
spoke. 

They  saved  me  up  for  the  last,  and  when  Adam 
had  finished  speaking  either  he  or  Hogge  would  in- 
troduce me,  and  my  singing  would  begin.  That 
was  the  programme  we  had  arranged  for  the  Hole- 
in-the-Ground  Theater,  as  the  Canadians  called 
their  amphitheater.  For  this  performance,  of 
course,  I  had  no  piano.  Johnson  and  the  wee 
instrument  were  back  where  we  had  left  the  motor 
cars,  and  so  I  just  had  to  sing  without  an  accom- 
paniment— except  that  which  the  great  booming 
of  the  guns  was  to  furnish  me. 

I  was  afraid  at  first  that  the  guns  would  bother 
me.  But  as  I  listened  to  Hogge  and  Adam  I 
ceased,  gradually,  to  notice  them  at  all,  and  I  soon 
felt  that  they  would  annoy  me  no  more,  when  it 
was  my  turn  to  go  on,  than  the  chatter  of  a  bunch 
of  stage  hands  in  the  wings  of  a  theater  had  so 
often  done. 

When  it  was  my  turn  I  began  with  "Koamin'  In 
the  Gloamm'."  The  verse  went  well,  and  I  swung 
into  the  chorus.  I  had  picked  the  song  to  open 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 


with  because  I  knew  the  soldiers  were  pretty  sure 
to  know  it,  and  so  would  join  me  in  the  chorus  — 
which  is  something  I  always  want  them  to  do. 
And  these  were  no  exceptions  to  the  general  rule. 
But,  just  as  I  got  into  the  chorus,  the  tune  of  the 
guns  changed.  They  had  been  coughing  and  spit- 
ting intermittently,  but  now,  suddenly,  it  seemed 
to  me  that  it  was  as  if  someone  had  kicked  the  lid 
off  the  fireworks  factory  and  dropped  a  lighted 
torch  inside. 

Every  gun  in  the  battery  around  the  hole  began 
whanging  away  at  once.  I  was  jumpy  and  nerv- 
ous, I'll  admit,  and  it  was  all  I  could  do  to  hold  to 
the  pitch  and  not  break  the  time.  I  thought  all  of 
Von  Hindenburg's  army  must  be  attacking  us, 
and,  from  the  row  and  din,  I  judged  he  must  have 
brought  up  some  of  the  German  navy  to  help,  in- 
stead of  letting  it  lie  in  the  Kiel  canal  where  the 
British  fleet  could  not  get  at  it.  I  never  heard 
such  a  terrific  racket  in  all  my  days. 

I  took  the  opportunity  to  look  around  at  my 
audience.  They  didn't  seem  to  be  a  bit  excited. 
They  all  had  their  eyes  fixed  on  me,  and  they 
weren't  listening  to  the  guns  —  only  to  me  and  my 
singing.  And  so,  as  they  probably  knew  what  was 
afoot,  and  took  it  so  quietly,  I  managed  to  keep 
on  singing  as  if  I,  too,  were  used  to  such  a  row, 
and  thought  no  more  of  it  than  of  the  ordinary 
traffic  noise  of  a  London  or  a  Glasgow  street.  But 
if  I  really  managed  to  look  that  way  my  appear- 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 


ances  were  most  deceptive,  because  I  was  nearer 
to  being  scared  than  I  had  been  at  any  time  yet  ! 
But  presently  I  began  to  get  interested  in  the 
noise  of  the  guns.  They  developed  a  certain  regu- 
lar rhythm.  I  had  to  allow  for  it,  and  make  it  fit 
the  time  of  what  I  was  singing.  And  as  I  realized 
that  probably  this  was  just  a  part  of  the  regular 
day's  work,  a  bit  of  ordinary  strafing,  and  not  a 
feature  of  a  grand  attack,  I  took  note  of  the 
rhythm.  It  went  something  like  this,  as  near  as 
I  can  gie  it  to  you  in  print  : 

"Roamin'  in  the—  PUH—  LAH—  gloamin'—  BAM! 
"On     the—  WHUFF  !—  BOOM  !—  bonny—  BR-R-R  !— 
banks  o'—  BIFF—  Clyde—  ZOW!" 

And  so  it  went  all  through  the  rest  of  the  con- 
cert. I  had  to  adjust  each  song  I  sang  to  that  odd 
rhythm  of  the  guns,  and  I  don't  know  but  what 
it  was  just  as  well  that  Johnson  wasn't  there! 
He'd  have  had  trouble  staying  with  me  with  his 
wee  bit  piano,  I'm  thinkin'  ! 

And,  do  you  ken,  I  got  to  see,  after  a  bit,  that  it 
was  the  gunners,  all  the  time,  havin'  a  bit  of  fun 
with  me  !  For  when  I  sang  a  verse  the  guns  be- 
haved themselves,  but  every  time  I  came  to  the 
chorus  they  started  up  the  same  inferno  of  noise 
again.  I  think  they  wanted  to  see,  at  first,  if  they 
could  no  shake  me  enough  to  make  me  stop  singing, 
and  they  liked  me  the  better  when  they  found  I 
would  no  stop.  The  soldiers  soon  began  to  laugh, 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  £13 

but  the  joke  was  not  all  on  me,  and  I  could  see  that 
they  understood  that,  and  were  pleased.  Indeed, 
it  was  all  as  amusing  to  me  as  to  them. 

I  doubt  if  "Koamin'  in  the  Gloamin'  "  or  any 
other  song  was  ever  sung  in  such  circumstances. 
I  sang  several  more  songs — they  called,  as  every 
audience  I  have  seems  to  do,  for  me  to  sing  my 
"Wee  Hoose  Amang  the  Heather" — and  then 
Captain  Godfrey  brought  the  concert  to  an  end.  It 
was  getting  along  toward  midafternoon,  and  he 
explained  that  we  had  another  call  to  make  before 
dark. 

"Good-by,  Harry — good  luck  to  you!  Thanks 
for  the  singing ! ' ? 

Such  cries  rose  from  all  sides,  and  the  Canadians 
came  crowding  around  to  shake  my  hand.  It  was 
touching  to  see  how  pleased  they  were,  and  it  made 
me  rejoice  that  I  had  been  able  to  come.  I  had 
thought,  sometimes,  that  it  might  be  a  presump- 
tuous thing,  in  a  way,  for  me  to  want  to  go  so  near 
the  front,  but  the  way  I  had  been  able  to  cheer  up 
the  lonely,  dull  routine  of  that  battery  went  far 
to  justify  me  in  coming,  I  thought. 

I  was  sorry  to  be  leaving  the  Canadians.  And 
I  was  glad  to  see  that  they  seemed  as  sorry  to 
have  me  go  as  I  was  to  be  going.  I  have  a  very 
great  fondness  for  the  Canadian  soldier.  He  is 
certainly  one  of  the  most  picturesque  and  interest- 
ing of  all  the  men  who  are  fighting  under  the  flags 
of  the  Allies,  and  it  is  certain  that  the  world  can 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 


never  forget  the  record  he  has  made  in  this  war  — 
a  record  of  courage  and  heroism  unexcelled  by  any 
and  equaled  by  few. 

I  stood  around  while  we  were  getting  ready  to 
start  back  to  the  cars,  and  one  of  the  officers  was 
with  me. 

"How  often  do  you  get  a  shell  right  inside  the 
pit  here?"  I  asked  him.  "A  fair  hit,  I  mean?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know!"  he  said,  slowly.  He 
looked  around.  "You  know  that  hole  you  were 
singing  in  just  now?" 

I  nodded.  I  had  guessed  that  it  had  been  made 
by  a  shell. 

"Well,  that's  the  result  of  a  Boche  shell," 
he  said.  '  '  If  you  'd  come  yesterday  we  'd  have  had 
to  find  another  place  for  your  concert  !  '  ' 

"Oh—  is  that  so!"  I  said. 

"Aye,"  he  said,  and  grinned.  "We  didn't  tell 
you  before,  Harry,  because  we  didn't  want  you  to 
feel  nervous,  or  anything  like  that,  while  you  were 
singing.  But  it  was  obliging  of  Fritz  —  now 
wasn't  it?  Think  of  having  him  take  all  the 
trouble  to  dig  out  a  fine  theater  for  us  that  way!" 

"It  was  obliging  of  him,  to  be  sure,"  I  said, 
rather  dryly. 

'  '  That  's  what  we  said,  "said  the  officer.  '  '  Why, 
as  soon  as  I  saw  the  hole  that  shell  had  made,  I 
said  to  Campbell:  'By  Jove  —  there's  the  very 
place  for  Harry  Lander's  concert  to-morrow!' 
And  he  agreed  with  me  !" 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  215 

Now  it  was  time  for  handshaking  and  good-bys. 
I  said  farewell  all  around,  and  wished  good  luck 
to  that  brave  battery,  so  cunningly  hidden  away 
in  its  pit.  There  was  a  great  deal  of  cheery  shout- 
ing and  waving  of  hands  as  we  went  off.  And  in 
two  minutes  the  battery  was  out  of  sight — even 
though  we  knew  exactly  where  it  was ! 

We  made  our  way  slowly  back,  through  the 
lengthening  shadows,  over  the  shell-pitted  ground. 
The  motor  cars  were  waiting,  and  Johnson,  too. 
Everything  was  shipshape  and  ready  for  a  new 
start,  and  we  climbed  in. 

As  we  drove  off  I  looked  back  at  Vimy  Ridge. 
And  I  continued  to  gaze  at  it  for  a  long  time.  No 
longer  did  it  disappoint  me.  No  longer  did  I  re- 
gard it  as  an  insignificant  hillock.  All  that  feeling 
that  had  come  to  me  with  my  first  sight  of  it  had 
been  banished  by  my  introduction  to  the  famous 
ridge  itself. 

It  had  spoken  to  me  eloquently,  despite  the  mute- 
ness of  the  myriad  tongues  it  had.  It  had  graven 
deep  into  my  heart  the  realization  of  its  true  place 
in  history. 

An  excrescence  in  a  flat  country — a  little  hump 
of  ground!  That  is  all  there  is  to  Vimy  Eidge. 
Aye !  It  does  not  stand  so  high  above  the  ground 
of  Flanders  as  would  the  books  that  will  be  writ- 
ten about  it  in  the  future,  were  you  to  pile  them 
all  up  together  when  the  last  one  of  them  is 
printed!  But  what  a  monument  it  is  to  bravery 


216  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

and  to  sacrifice — to  all  that  is  best  in  this  human 
race  of  ours ! 

No  human  hands  have  ever  reared  such  a  monu- 
ment as  that  ridge  is  and  will  be.  There  some  of 
the  greatest  deeds  in  history  were  done — some  of 
the  noblest  acts  that  there  is  record  of  performed. 
There  men  lived  and  died  gloriously  in  their  brief 
moment  of  climax — the  moment  for  which,  all  un- 
knowing, all  their  lives  before  that  day  of  battle 
had  been  lived. 

I  took  off  my  cap  as  I  looked  back,  with  a  ges- 
ture and  a  thought  of  deep  and  solemn  reverence. 
And  so  I  said  good-by  to  Vimy  Ridge,  and  to  the 
brave  men  I  had  known  there — living  and  dead. 
For  I  felt  that  I  had  come  to  know  some  of  the  dead 
as  well  as  the  living. 


CHAPTER  XVin 

""W  TrOU'LL  see  another  phase  of  the  front  now, 
J  Harry,"  said  Captain  Godfrey,  as  I 
turned  my  eyes  to  the  front  once  more. 

" What's  the  next  stop?"  I  asked. 

"We  're  heading  for  a  rest  billet  behind  the  lines. 
There  '11  be  lots  of  men  there  who  are  just  out  of 
the  trenches.  It's  a  ghastly  strain  for  even  the 
best  and  most  seasoned  troops — this  work  in  the 
trenches.  So,  after  a  battalion  has  been  in  for 
a  certain  length  of  time,  it's  pulled  out  and  sent 
back  to  a  rest  billet. ' ' 

"What  do  they  do  there!"  I  asked. 

"Well,  they  don't  loaf — there's  none  of  that  in 
the  British  army,  these  days!  But  it's  paradise, 
after  the  trenches.  For  one  thing  there  isn't  the 
constant  danger  there  is  up  front.  The  men  aren  't 
under  steady  fire.  Of  course,  there's  always  the 
chance  of  a  bomb  dropping  raid  by  a  Taube  or  a 
Fokker.  The  men  get  a  chance  to  clean  up.  They 
get  baths,  and  their  clothes  are  cleaned  and  disin- 
fected. They  get  rid  of  the  cooties — you  know 
what  they  are  t ' ' 

I  could  guess.  The  plague  of  vermin  in  the 
trenches  is  one  of  the  minor  horrors  of  war. 

"They  do  a  lot  of  drilling,"  Godfrey  went  on. 
"Except  for  those  times  in  the  rest  billets,  regi- 

217 


218  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

merits  might  get  a  bit  slack.  In  the  trenches,  you 
see,  the  routine  is  strict,  but  it's  different.  Men 
are  much  more  on  their  own.  There  aren't  any 
inspections  of  kit  and  all  that  sort  of  thing — not 
for  neatness,  anyway. 

"And  it's  a  good  thing  for  soldiers  to  be  neat. 
It  helps  discipline.  And  discipline,  in  time  of  war, 
isn't  just  a  parade-ground  matter.  It  means  lives 
— every  time.  Your  disciplined  man,  who's 
trained  to  do  certain  things  automatically,  is  the 
man  you  can  depend  on  in  any  sort  of  emergency. 

"That's  the  thing  that  the  Canadians  and  the 
Australians  have  had  to  learn  since  they  came  out. 
There  never  were  any  braver  troops  than  those 
in  the  world,  but  at  first  they  didn  't  have  the  auto- 
matic discipline  they  needed.  That'll  be  the  first 
problem  in  training  the  new  American  armies,  too. 
It's  a  highly  practical  matter.  And  so,  in  the  rest 
billets,  they  drill  the  men  a  goodish  bit.  It  keeps 
up  the  morale,  and  makes  them  fitter  and  keener 
for  the  work  when  they  go  back  to  the  trenches. ' ' 

"You  don't  make  it  sound  much  like  a  real  rest 
for  them,"  I  said. 

"Oh,  but  it  is,  all  right!  They  have  a  com- 
fortable place  to  sleep.  They  get  better  food. 
The  men  in  the  trenches  get  the  best  food  it's 
possible  to  give  them,  but  it  can't  be  cooked  much, 
for  there  aren't  facilities.  The  diet  gets  pretty 
monotonous.  In  the  rest  billets  they  get  more 
variety.  And  they  have  plenty  of  free  time,  and 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  219 

there  are  hours  when  they  can  go  to  the  estaminet 
— there's  always  one  handy,  a  sort  of  pub,  you 
know — and  buy  things  for  themselves.  Oh,  they 
have  a  pretty  good  time,  as  you'll  see,  in  a  rest 
billet." 

I  had  to  take  his  word  for  it.  We  went  bowling 
along  at  a  good  speed,  but  pretty  soon  we  encoun- 
tered a  detachment  of  Somerset  men.  They 
halted  when  they  spied  our  caravan,  and  so  did 
we.  As  usual  they  recognized  us. 

"You'm  Harry  Lauder!"  said  one  of  them,  in 
the  broad  accent  of  his  country.  "Us  has  seen 
'ee  often!" 

Johnson  was  out  already,  and  he  and  the  drivers 
were  unlimbering  the  wee  piano.  It  didn't  take 
so  long,  now  that  we  were  getting  used  to  the  task, 
to  make  ready  for  a  roadside  concert.  While  I 
waited  I  talked  to  the  men.  They  were  on  their 
way  to  Ypres.  Tommy  can't  get  the  name  right, 
and  long  ago  ceased  trying  to  do  so.  The  French 
and  Belgians  call  it  "Eepre" — that's  as  near  as  I 
can  give  it  to  you  in  print,  at  least.  But  Tommy, 
as  all  the  world  must  know  by  now,  calls  it  Wipers, 
and  that  is  another  name  that  will  live  as  long  as 
British  history  is  told. 

The  Somerset  men  squatted  in  the  road  while 
I  sang  my  songs  for  them,  and  gave  me  their  most 
rapt  attention.  It  was  hugely  gratifying  and  flat- 
tering, the  silence  that  always  descended  upon  an 
audience  of  soldiers  when  I  sang.  There  were 


220  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

never  any  interruptions.  But  at  the  end  of  a  song, 
and  during  the  chorus,  which  they  always  wanted 
to  sing  with  me,  as  I  wanted  them  to  do,  too,  they 
made  up  for  their  silence. 

Soon  the  Eeverend  Harry  Lauder,  M.P.,  Tour 
was  on  its  way  again.  The  cheers  of  the  Somerset 
men  sounded  gayly  in  our  ears,  and  the  cars 
quickly  picked  up  speed  and  began  to  mop  up  the 
miles  at  a  great  rate.  And  then,  suddenly — whoa ! 
We  were  in  the  midst  of  soldiers  again.  This 
time  it  was  a  bunch  of  motor  repair  men. 

They  wandered  along  the  roads,  working  on  the 
trucks  and  cars  that  were  abandoned  when  they 
got  into  trouble,  and  left  along  the  side  of  the  road. 
We  had  seen  scores  of  such  wrecks  that  day,  and  I 
had  wondered  if  they  were  left  there  indefinitely. 
Far  from  it,  as  I  learned  now.  Squads  like  this 
— there  were  two  hundred  men  in  this  particular 
party — were  always  at  work.  Many  of  the  cars 
they  salvaged  without  difficulty — those  that  had 
been  abandoned  because  of  comparatively  minor 
engine  troubles  or  defects.  Others  had  to  be 
towed  to  a  repair  shop,  or  loaded  upon  other  trucks 
for  the  journey,  if  their  wheels  were  out  of  com- 
mission. 

Others  still  were  beyond  repair.  They  had  been 
utterly  smashed  in  a  collision,  maybe,  or  as  a  re- 
sult of  skidding.  Or  they  had  burned.  Some- 
times they  had  been  knocked  off  the  road  and  gen- 
erally demoralized  by  a  shell.  And  in  such  cases, 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  221 

often,  all  that  men  such  as  these  we  had  met  now 
could  do  was  to  retrieve  some  parts  to  be  used  in 
repairing  other  cars  in  a  less  hopeless  state. 

By  this  time  Johnson  and  the  two  soldier 
chauffeurs  had  reduced  the  business  of  setting  our 
stage  to  a  fine  point.  It  took  us  but  a  very  few 
minutes  indeed  to  be  ready  for  a  concert,  and  from 
the  time  when  we  sighted  a  potential  audience  to 
the  moment  for  the  opening  number  was  an  almost 
incredibly  brief  period.  This  time  that  was  a 
good  thing,  for  it  was  growing  late.  And  so,  al- 
though the  repair  men  were  loath  to  let  me  go,  it 
was  but  an  abbreviated  programme  that  I  was  able 
to  offer  them.  This  was  one  of  the  most  enthusi- 
astic audiences  I  had  had  yet,  for  nearly  every 
man  there,  it  turned  out,  had  been  what  Americans 
would  call  a  Harry  Lauder  fan  in  the  old  days. 
They  had  been  wont  to  go  again  and  again  to  hear 
me.  I  wanted  to  stay  and  sing  more  songs  for 
them,  but  Captain  Godfrey  was  in  charge,  and  I 
had  to  obey  his  orders,  reluctant  though  I  was 
to  go  on. 

Our  destination  was  a  town  called  Aubigny — 
rather  an  old  chateau  just  outside  the  town. 
Aubigny  was  the  billet  of  the  Fifteenth  Division, 
then  in  rest.  Many  officers  were  quartered  in  the 
chateau,  as  the  guests  of  its  French  owners,  who 
remained  in  possession,  having  refused  to  clear 
out,  despite  the  nearness  of  the  actual  fighting 
front. 


222  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

This  was  a  Scots  division,  I  was  glad  to  find. 
I  heard  good  Scots  talk  all  around  me  when  I 
arrived,  and  it  was  Scottish  hospitality,  mingled 
with  French,  that  awaited  us.  I  know  no  finer 
combination,  nor  one  more  warming  to  the  cockles 
of  a  man's  heart. 

Here  there  was  luxury,  compared  to  what  I  had 
seen  that  day.  As  Godfrey  had  warned  me,  the 
idea  of  resting  that  the  troops  had  was  a  bit  more 
strenuous  than  mine  would  be.  There  was  no 
lying  and  lolling  about.  Hot  though  the  weather 
was  a  deal  of  football  was  played,  and  there  were 
games  of  one  sort  and  another  going  on  nearly  all 
the  time  when  the  men  were  off  duty. 

This  division,  I  learned,  had  seen  some  of  the 
hardest  and  bloodiest  fighting  of  the  whole  war. 
They  had  been  through  the  great  offensive  that 
had  pivoted  on  Arras,  and  had  been  sorely  knocked 
about.  They  had  well  earned  such  rest  as  was 
coming  to  them  now,  and  they  were  getting  ready, 
in  the  most  cheerful  way  you  can  imagine,  for 
their  next  tour  of  duty  in  the  trenches.  They 
knew  about  how  much  time  they  would  have,  and 
they  made  the  best  use  they  could  of  it. 

New  drafts  were  coming  out  daily  from  home  to 
fill  up  their  sadly  depleted  ranks.  The  new  men 
were  quickly  drawn  in  and  assimilated  into  or- 
ganizations that  had  been  reduced  to  mere  skele- 
tons. New  officers  were  getting  acquainted  with 
their  men;  that  wonderful  thing  that  is  called 


223 


esprit  de  corps  was  being  made  all  around  me.  It 
is  a  great  sight  to  watch  it  in  the  making ;  it  helps 
you  to  understand  the  victories  our  laddies  have 
won. 

I  was  glad  to  see  the  kilted  men  of  the  Scots 
regiments  all  about  me.  It  wras  them,  after  all, 
that  I  had  come  to  see.  I  wanted  to  talk  to  them, 
and  see  them  here,  in  France.  I  had  seen  them  at 
hame,  flocking  to  the  recruiting  offices.  I  had  seen 
them  in  their  training  camps.  But  this  was  differ- 
ent. I  love  all  the  soldiers  of  the  Empire,  but  it 
is  natural,  is  it  no,  that  my  warmest  feeling  should 
be  for  the  laddies  who  wear  the  kilt. 

They  were  the  most  cheerful  souls,  as  I  saw  them 
when  we  reached  their  rest  camp,  that  you  could 
imagine.  They  were  laughing  and  joking  all 
about  us,  and  when  they  heard  that  the  Rev- 
erend Harry  Lauder,  M.P.,  Tour  had  arrived  they 
crowded  about  us  to  see.  They  wanted  to  make 
sure  that  I  was  there,  and  I  was  greeted  in  all  sorts 
of  dialect  that  sounded  enough,  I'll  be  bound,  to 
Godfrey  and  some  of  the  rest  of  our  party.  There 
were  even  men  who  spoke  to  me  in  the  Gaelic. 

I  saw  a  good  deal,  afterward,  of  these  Scots 
troops.  My,  how  hard  they  did  work  while  they 
rested!  And  what  chances  they  took  of  broken 
bones  and  bruises  in  their  play !  Ye  would  think, 
would  ye  no,  that  they  had  enough  of  that  in  the 
trenches,  where  they  got  lumps  and  bruises  and 
sorer  hurts  in  the  run  of  duty?  But  no.  So  soon 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 


as  they  came  back  to  their  rest  billets  they  must 
begin  to  play  by  knocking  the  skin  and  the  hair  off 
one  another  at  sports  of  various  sorts,  of  which 
football  was  among  the  mildest,  that  are  not  by 
any  means  to  be  recommended  to  those  of  a  deli- 
cate fiber. 

Some  of  the  men  I  met  at  Aubigny  had  been  out 
since  Mons  —  some  of  the  old  kilted  regiments  of 
the  old  regular  army,  they  were.  Away  back  in 
those  desperate  days  the  Germans  had  dubbed 
them  the  ladies  from  Hell,  on  account  of  their  kilts. 
Some  of  the  Germans  really  thought  they  were 
women  !  That  was  learned  from  prisoners.  Since 
Mons  they  have  been  out,  and  auld  Scotland  has 
poured  out  men  by  the  scores  of  thousands,  as  fast 
as  they  were  needed,  to  fill  the  gaps  the  German 
shells  and  bullets  have  torn  in  the  Scots  ranks. 
Aye  —  since  Mons,  and  they  will  be  there  at  the 
finish,  when  it  comes,  please  God! 

There  have  always  been  Scots  regiments  in  the 
British  army,  ever  since  the  day  when  King  Jamie 
the  Sixth,  of  Scotland,  of  the  famous  and  unhappy 
house  of  Stuart,  became  King  James  the  First  of 
England.  The  kilted  regiments,  the  Highlanders, 
belonging  to  the  immortal  Highland  Brigade,  in- 
clude the  Gordon  Highlanders,  the  Forty-second, 
the  world  famous  Black  Watch,  as  it  is  better 
known  than  by  its  numbered  designation,  the  Sea- 
f  orth  Highlanders,  and  the  Argyle  and  Sutherland 
regiment,  or  the  Princess  Louise's  Own.  That 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  225 

was  the  regiment  to  a  territorial  battalion  of 
which  my  boy  John  belonged  at  the  outbreak 
of  the  war,  and  with  which  he  served  until  he 
was  killed. 

Some  of  those  old,  famous  regiments  have  been 
wiped  out  half  a  dozen  times,  almost  literally  anni- 
hilated, since  Mons.  New  drafts,  and  the  addition 
of  territorial  battalions,  have  replenished  them 
and  kept  up  their  strength,  and  the  continuity  of 
their  tradition  has  never  been  broken.  The  men 
who  compose  a  regiment  may  be  wiped  out,  but 
the  regiment  survives.  It  is  an  organization,  an 
entity,  a  creature  with  a  soul  as  well  as  a  body. 
And  the  Germans  have  no  discovered  a  way  yet 
of  killing  the  soul  1  They  can  do  dreadful  things 
to  the  bodies  of  men  and  women,  but  their  souls 
are  safe  from  them. 

Of  course  there  are  Scots  regiments  that  are  not 
kilted  and  that  have  naught  to  do  with  the  Hie- 
landers,  who  have  given  as  fine  and  brave  an  ac- 
count of  themselves  as  any.  There  are  the  Scots 
Guards,  one  of  the  regiments  of  the  Guards 
Brigade,  the  very  pick  and  flower  of  the  British 
army.  There  are  the  King's  Own  Scottish  Bor- 
derers, with  as  fine  a  history  and  tradition  as  any 
regiment  in  the  army,  and  a  record  of  service  of 
which  any  regiment  might  well  be  proud;  the 
Scots  Fusiliers,  the  Eoyal  Scots,  the  Scottish 
Rifles,  and  the  Scots  Greys,  of  Crimean  fame — 
the  only  cavalry  regiment  from  Scotland. 


226  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

Since  this  war  began  other  Highland  regiments 
have  been  raised  beside  those  originally  included 
in  the  Highland  Brigade.  There  are  Scots  from 
Canada  who  wear  the  kilt  and  their  own  tartan  and 
cap.  Every  Highland  regiment,  of  course,  has  its 
own  distinguishing  tartan  and  cap.  One  of  the 
proudest  moments  of  my  life  came  when  I  heard 
that  the  ninth  battalion  of  the  Highland  Light 
Infantry,  which  was  raised  in  Glasgow,  but  has 
its  depot,  where  its  recruits  and  new  drafts  are 
trained,  at  Hamilton,  was  known  as  the  Harry 
Lauders.  That  was  because  they  had  adopted  the 
Balmoral  cap,  with  dice,  that  had  become  asso- 
ciated with  me  because  I  had  worn  it  so  often  and 
so  long  on  the  stage  in  singing  one  of  my 
most  famous  and  successful  songs,  "I  Love  a 
Lassie." 

But  in  the  trenches,  of  course,  the  Hieland 
troops  all  look  alike.  They  cling  to  their  kilts — 
or,  rather,  their  kilts  cling  to  them — but  kilts  and 
jackets  are  all  of  khaki.  If  they  wore  the  bright 
plaids  of  the  tartans  they  would  be  much  too  con- 
spicuous a  mark  for  the  Germans,  and  so  they  have 
to  forswear  their  much  loved  colors  when  they  are 
actually  at  grips  with  Fritz. 

I  wear  the  kilt  nearly  always,  myself,  as  I  have 
said.  Partly  I  do  so  because  it  is  my  native  cos- 
tume, and  I  am  proud  of  my  Highland  birth; 
partly  because  I  revel  in  the  comfort  of  the  cos- 
tume. But  it  brings  me  some  amusing  experiences. 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  287 

Very  often  I  am  asked  a  question  that  is,  I  pre- 
sume, fired  at  many  a  Hieland  soldier,  intimate 
though  it  is. 

"I  say,  Harry,"  someone  will  ask  me,  "you 
wear  the  kilt.  Do  you  not  wear  anything  under- 
neath it!" 

I  do,  myself.  I  wear  a  very  short  pair  of 
trunks,  chiefly  for  reasons  of  modesty.  So  do 
some  of  the  soldiers.  But  if  they  do  they  must 
provide  it  for  themselves;  no  such  garment  is 
served  out  to  them  with  their  uniform.  And  so 
the  vast  majority  of  the  men  wear  nothing  but 
their  skins  under  the  kilt.  He  is  bare,  that  is, 
from  the  waist  to  the  hose — except  for  the  kilt. 
But  that  is  garment  enough!  I'll  tell  ye  so,  and 
I  'm  thinkin '  I  know ! 

So  clad  the  Highland  soldier  is  a  great  deal  more 
comfortable  and  a  great  deal  more  sanely  dressed, 
I  believe,  than  the  city  dweller  who  is  trousered 
and  underweared  within  an  inch  of  his  life.  I 
think  it  is  a  matter  of  medical  record,  that  can  be 
verified  from  the  reports  of  the  army  surgeons, 
that  the  kilted  troops  are  among  the  healthiest  in 
the  whole  army.  I  know  that  the  Highland  troops 
are  much  less  subject  to  abdominal  troubles  of  all 
sorts — colic  and  the  like.  The  kilt  lies  snug  and 
warm  around  the  stomach,  in  several  thick  layers, 
and  a  more  perfect  protection  from  the  cold  has 
never  been  devised  for  that  highly  delicate  and 
susceptible  region  of  the  human  anatomy. 


228  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

Women,  particularly,  are  always  asking  me  an- 
other question.  I  have  seen  them  eyeing  me,  in 
cold  weather,  when  I  was  walkin'  around,  comfort- 
ably, in  my  kilt.  And  their  eyes  would  wander  to 
my  knees,  and  I  would  know  before  they  opened 
their  mouths  what  it  was  that  they  were  going  to 
say. 

1 '  Oh,  Mr.  Lauder, ' '  they  would  ask  me.  ' '  Don 't 
your  poor  knees  get  cold — with  no  coverings,  ex- 
posed to  this  bitter  cold?" 

Well,  they  never  have !  That 's  all  I  can  tell  you. 
They  have  had  the  chance,  in  all  sorts  of  bitter 
weather.  I  am  not  thinking  only  of  the  compari- 
tively  mild  winters  of  Britain — although,  up  north, 
in  Scotland,  we  get  some  pretty  severe  winter 
weather.  But  I  have  been  in  Western  Canada, 
and  in  the  northwestern  states  of  the  United 
States,  Montana,  North  Dakota,  Minnesota,  where 
the  thermometer  drops  far  below  zero.  And  my 
knees  have  never  been  cold  yet.  They  do  not 
suffer  from  the  cold  any  more  than  does  my  face, 
which  is  as  little  covered  and  protected  as  they 
— and  for  the  same  reason,  I  suppose.  They  are 
used  to  the  weather. 

And  when  it  comes  to  the  general  question  of 
health,  I  am  certain,  from  my  own  experience,  that 
the  kilt  is  best.  Several  times,  for  one  reason  or 
another,  I  have  laid  my  kilts  aside  and  put  on 
trousers.  And  each  time  I  have  been  seized  by 
violent  colds,  and  my  life  has  been  made  wretched. 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  229 

A  good  many  soldiers  of  my  acquaintance  have 
had  the  same  experience. 

Practical  reasons  aside,  however,  the  Scots 
soldier  loves  his  kilt,  and  would  fight  like  a  steer 
to  keep  from  having  it  taken  away  from  him, 
should  anyone  be  so  foolish  as  to  try  such  a  per- 
formance. He  loves  it,  not  only  because  it  is  warm 
and  comfortable,  but  because  it  is  indistinguish- 
ably  associated  in  his  mind  with  some  of  the  most 
glorious  pages  of  Scottish  history.  It  is  a  sign 
and  symbol  of  his  hameland  to  him.  There  have 
been  times,  in  Scotland,  when  all  was  not  as  peace- 
ful in  the  country's  relations  with  England  as  it 
now  is,  when  the  loyal  Scot  who  wore  the  kilt  did 
so  knowing  that  he  might  be  tried  for  his  life  for 
doing  so,  since  death  had  been  the  penalty  ap- 
pointed for  that  "crime." 

Aye,  it  is  peace  and  friendship  now  between 
Scot  and  Englishman.  But  that  is  not  to  say 
that  there  is  no  a  friendly  rivalry  between  them 
still.  English  regiments  and  Scots  regiments 
have  a  lot  of  fun  with  one  another,  and  a  bit  rough 
it  gets,  too,  at  times.  But  it  is  all  in  fun,  and  there 
is  no  harm  done.  I  have  in  mind  a  tale  an  officer 
told  me — though  the  men  of  whom  he  told  it  did 
not  know  that  an  officer  had  any  inkling  of  the 
story. 

The  English  soldiers  are  very  fond  of  harping 
on  the  old  idea  of  the  difficulty  of  making  a  Scots- 
man see  a  joke.  That  is  a  base  slander,  I'll  say, 


230  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

but  no  matter.  There  were  two  regiments  in  rest 
close  to  one  another,  one  English  and  one  Scots. 
They  met  at  the  estaminet  or  pub  in  the  nearby 
town.  And  one  day  the  Englishman  put  up  a 
great  joke  on  some  of  the  Scots,  and  did  get  a 
little  proof  of  that  pet  idea  of  theirs,  for  the  Scots 
were  slow  to  see  the  joke. 

Ah,  weel,  that  was  enough !  For  days  the  Eng- 
lish rang  the  changes  on  that  joke,  teasing  the  Hie- 
landers  and  making  sport  of  them.  But  at  last, 
when  the  worst  of  the  tormentors  were  all  assem- 
bled together,  two  of  the  Scots  came  into  the  room 
where  they  were  havin'  a  wee  drappie. 

"Mon,  Sandy,"  said  one  of  them,  shaking  his 
head,  "I've  been  thinking  what  a  sad  thing  that 
would  be !  I  hope  it  will  no  come  to  pass. ' ' 

"Aye,  that  would  be  a  sore  business,  indeed, 
Tarn,"  said  Sandy,  and  he,  too,  shook  his  head. 

And  so  they  went  on.  The  Englishmen  stood  it 
as  long  as  they  could  and  then  one  turned  to 
Sandy. 

"What  is  it  would  be  such  a  bad  business?"  he 
asked. 

"Mon-mon,"  said  Sandy.  "We've  been  think- 
ing, Tarn  and  I,  what  would  become  of  England, 
should  Scotland  make  a  separate  peace?" 

And  it  was  generally  conceded  that  the  last 
laugh  was  with  the  Scots  in  that  affair! 

My  boy,  John,  had  the  same  love  for  the  kilt  that 
I  had.  He  was  proud  and  glad  to  wear  the  kilt, 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  231 

and  to  lead  men  who  did  the  same.  While  he  was 
in  training  at  Bedford  he  organized  a  corps  of 
cyclists  for  dispatch-bearing  work.  He  was  a 
crack  cyclist  himself,  and  it  was  a  sport  of  which 
he  was  passionately  fond.  So  he  took  a  great  in- 
terest in  the  corps,  and  it  soon  gained  wide  fame 
for  its  efficiency.  So  true  was  that  that  the  au- 
thorities took  note  of  the  corps,  and  of  John,  who 
was  responsible  for  it,  and  he  was  asked  to  go  to 
France  to  take  charge  of  organizing  a  similar 
corps  behind  the  front.  But  that  would  have  in- 
volved a  transfer  to  a  different  branch  of  the 
army,  and  detachment  from  his  regiment.  And — 
it  would  have  meant  that  he  must  doff  his  kilt. 
Since  he  had  the  chance  to  decline — it  was  an  offer, 
not  an  order,  that  had  come  to  him — he  did,  that 
he  might  keep  his  kilt  and  stay  with  his  own 
men. 

To  my  eyes  there  is  no  spectacle  that  begins  to 
be  so  imposing  as  the  sight  of  a  parade  of  Scottish 
troops  in  full  uniform.  And  it  is  the  unanimous 
testimony  of  German  prisoners  that  this  war  has 
brought  them  no  more  terrifying  sight  than  the 
charge  of  a  kilted  regiment.  The  Highlanders 
come  leaping  forward,  their  bayonets  gleaming, 
shouting  old  battle  cries  that  rang  through  the 
glens  years  and  centuries  ago,  and  that  have  come 
down  to  the  descendants  of  the  warriors  of  an 
ancient  time.  The  Highlanders  love  to  use  cold 
steel ;  the  claymore  was  their  old  weapon,  and  the 


232  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

bayonet  is  its  nearest  equivalent  in  modern  war. 
They  are  master  hands  with  that,  too — and  the 
bayonet  is  the  one  thing  the  Hun  has  no  stomach 
for  at  all. 

Fritz  is  brave  enough  when  he  is  under  such 
cover  and  shelter  as  the  trenches  give.  And  he 
has  shown  a  sort  of  stubborn  courage  when  attack- 
ing in  massed  formations — the  Germans  have 
made  terrible  sacrifices,  at  times,  in  their  offensive 
efforts.  But  his  blood  turns  to  water  in  his  veins 
when  he  sees  the  big  braw  laddies  from  the  Hie- 
lands  come  swooping  toward  him,  their  kilts  flap- 
ping and  their  bayonets  shining  in  whatever  light 
there  is.  Then  he  is  mighty  quick  to  throw  up  his 
hands  and  shout:  "Kamerad!  Kamerad!" 

I  might  go  on  all  night  telling  you  some  of  the 
stories  I  heard  along  the  front  about  the  Scottish 
soldiers.  They  illustrate  and  explain  every  phase 
of  his  character.  They  exploit  his  humor,  despite 
that  base  slander  to  which  I  have  already  referred, 
his  courage,  his  stoicism.  And,  of  course,  a  vast 
fund  of  stories  has  sprung  up  that  deals  with  the 
proverbial  thrift  of  the  Scot !  There  was  one  tale 
that  will  bear  repeating,  perhaps. 

Two  Highlanders  had  captured  a  chicken — a  live 
chicken,  not  particularly  fat,  it  may  be,  even  a  bit 
scrawny,  but  still,  a  live  chicken.  That  was  a 
prize,  since  the  bird  seemed  to  have  no  owner  who 
might  get  them  into  trouble  with  the  military 
police.  One  was  for  killing  and  eating  the  fowl 


& 

o 

C 

si 
H 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  233 

at  once.  But  the  other  would  have  none  of  such  a 
summary  plan. 

"No,  no,  Jimmy,"  he  said,  pleadingly,  holding 
the  chicken  protectingly.  " Let's  keep  her  until 
morning,  and  may  be  we  will  ha'  an  egg  as  well !" 

The  other  British  soldiers  call  the  Scots  Jock, 
invariably.  The  Englishman,  or  a  soldier  from 
Wales  or  Ireland,  as  a  rule,  is  called  Tommy — 
after  the  well-known  M.  Thomas  Atkins.  Some- 
times, an  Irishman  will  be  Paddy  and  a  Welsh- 
man Taffy.  But  the  Scot  is  always  Jock. 

Jock  gave  us  a  grand  welcome  at  Aubigny.  We 
were  all  pretty  tired,  but  when  they  told  me  I  could 
have  an  audience  of  seven  thousand  Scots  soldiers 
I  forgot  my  weariness,  and  Hogge,  Adam  and  I, 
to  say  nothing  of  Johnson  and  the  wee  piano, 
cleared  for  action,  as  you  might  say.  The  concert 
was  given  in  the  picturesque  grounds  of  the 
chateau,  which  had  been  less  harshly  treated  by 
the  war  than  many  such  beautiful  old  places.  It 
was  a  great  experience  to  sing  to  so  many  men;  it 
was  far  and  away  the  largest  house  we  had  had 
since  we  had  landed  at  Boulogne. 

After  we  left  Aubigny,  the  chateau  and  that 
great  audience,  we  drove  on  as  quickly  as  we  could, 
since  it  was  now  late,  to  the  headquarters  of  Gen- 
eral Mac ,  commanding  the  Fifteenth  Division 

— to  which,  of  course,  the  men  whom  we  had  just 
been  entertaining  belonged.  I  was  to  meet  the 
general  upon  my  arrival. 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 


That  was  a  strange  ride.  It  was  pitch  dark,  and 
we  had  some  distance  to  go.  There  were  mighty 
few  lights  in  evidence  ;  you  do  not  advertise  a  road 
to  Fritz  's  airplanes  when  you  are  traveling  roads 
anywhere  near  the  front,  for  he  has  guns  of  long 
range,  that  can  at  times  manage  to  strafe  a  road 
that  is  supposed  to  be  beyond  the  zone  of  fire  with 
a  good  deal  of  effect.  I  have  seldom  seen  a 
blacker  night  than  that.  Objects  along  the  side  of 
the  road  were  nothing  but  shapeless  lumps,  and  I 
did  not  see  how  our  drivers  could  manage  at  all  to 
find  their  way. 

They  seemed  to  have  no  difficulty,  however,  but 
got  along  swimmingly.  Indeed,  they  traveled 
faster  than  they  had  in  daylight.  Perhaps  that 
was  because  we  were  not  meeting  troops  to  hold  us 
up  along  this  road;  I  believe  that,  if  we  had,  we 
should  have  stopped  and  given  them  a  concert, 
even  though  Johnson  could  not  have  seen  the  keys 
of  his  piano  ! 

It  was  just  as  well,  however.  I  was  delighted 
at  the  reception  that  had  been  given  to  the  Rever- 
end Harry  Lauder,  M.P.,  Tour  all  through  our 
first  day  in  France.  But  I  was  also  extremely 
tired,  and  the  dinner  and  bed  that  loomed  up  ahead 
of  us,  at  the  end  of  our  long  ride  through  the  dark, 
took  on  an  aspect  of  enchantment  as  we  neared 
them.  My  voice,  used  as  I  was  to  doing  a  great 
deal  of  singing,  was  fagged,  and  Hogge  and  Dr. 
Adam  were  so  hoarse  that  they  could  scarcely 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  235 

speak  at  all.  Even  Johnson  was  pretty  well  done 
up ;  he  was  still,  theoretically,  at  least,  on  the  sick 
list,  of  course.  And  I  ha'  no  doot  that  the  wee 
piano  felt  it  was  entitled  to  its  rest,  too ! 

So  we  were  all  mighty  glad  when  the  cars 
stopped  at  last. 

"Well,  here  we  are!"  said  Captain  Godfrey, 
who  was  the  freshest  of  us  all.  ' '  This  is  Trame- 
court — General  Headquarters  for  the  Reverend 
Harry  Lauder,  M.P.,  Tour  while  you  are  in 
France,  gentlemen.  They  have  special  facilities 
for  visitors  here,  and  unless  one  of  Fritz's  air- 
planes feels  disposed  to  drop  a  bomb  or  two,  you 
won't  be  under  fire,  at  night  at  least.  Of  course, 
in  the  daytime " 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  For  our  plans  did 
not  involve  a  search  for  safe  places.  Still,  it  was 
pleasant  to  know  that  we  might  sleep  in  fair  com- 
fort. 

General  Mac was  waiting  to  welcome  us, 

and  told  us  that  dinner  was  ready  and  waiting, 
which  we  were  all  glad  to  hear.  It  had  been  a 
long,  hard  day,  although  the  most  interesting  one, 
by  far,  that  I  had  ever  spent. 

We  made  short  work  of  dinner,  and  soon  after- 
ward they  took  us  to  our  rooms.  I  don't  know 
what  Hogge  and  Dr.  Adam  did,  but  I  know  I  looked 
happily  at  the  comfortable  bed  that  was  in  my 
room.  And  I  slept  easily  and  without  being 
rocked  to  sleep  that  nicht ! 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THOUGH  we  were  out  of  the  zone  of  fire — 
except  for  stray  activities  in  which  Boche 
airplanes  might  indulge  themselves,  as  our 
hosts  were  frequently  likely  to  remind  us,  lest  we 
fancy  ourselves  too  secure,  I  suppose — we  were 
by  no  means  out  of  hearing  of  the  grim  work  that 
was  going  on  a  few  miles  away.  The  big  guns, 
of  course,  are  placed  well  behind  the  front  line 
trenches,  and  we  could  hear  their  sullen,  constant 
quarreling  with  Fritz  and  his  artillery.  The 
rumble  of  the  Hun  guns  came  to  us,  too.  But 
that  is  a  sound  to  which  you  soon  get  used,  out 
there  in  France.  You  pay  no  more  heed  to  it 
than  you  do  to  the  noise  the  'buses  make  in  Lon- 
don or  the  trams  in  Glasgow. 

In  the  morning  I  got  my  first  chance  really  to  see 
Tramecourt.  The  chateau  is  a  lovely  one,  a  fine 
example  of  such  places.  It  had  not  been  knocked 
about  at  all,  and  it  looked  much  as  it  must  have 
done  in  times  of  peace.  Practically  all  the  old 
furniture  was  still  in  the  rooms,  and  there  were 
some  fine  old  pictures  on  the  walls  that  it  gave  me 
great  delight  to  see.  Indeed,  the  rare  old  atmos- 
phere of  the  chateau  was  restful  and  delightful  in 
a  way  that  surprised  me. 

236 


fA  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  237 

I  had  been  in  the  presence  of  real  war  for  just 
one  day.  And  yet  I  took  pleasure  in  seeing  again 
the  comforts  and  some  of  the  luxuries  of  peace! 
That  gave  me  an  idea  of  what  this  sort  of  place 
must  mean  to  men  from  the  trenches.  It  must 
seem  like  a  bit  of  heaven  to  them  to  come  back  to 
Aubigny  or  Tramecourt !  Think  of  the  contrast. 

The  chateau,  which  had  been  taken  over  by  the 
British  army,  belonged  to  the  Comte  de  Chabot,  or, 
rather,  to  his  wife,  who  had  been  Marquise  de 
Tramecourt,  one  of  the  French  families  of  the  old 
regime.  Although  the  old  nobility  of  France  has 
ceased  to  have  any  legal  existence  under  the  Ee- 
public  the  old  titles  are  still  used  as  a  matter  of 
courtesy,  and  they  have  a  real  meaning  and  value. 
This  was  a  pleasant  place,  this  chateau  of  Trame- 
court ;  I  should  like  to  see  it  again  in  days  of  peace, 
for  then  it  must  be  even  more  delightful  than  it 
was  when  I  came  to  know  it  so  well. 

Tramecourt  was  to  be  our  home,  the  headquar- 
ters of  the  Reverend  Harry  Lauder,  M.P.,  Tour, 
during  the  rest  of  our  stay  at  the  front.  We  were 
to  start  out  each  morning,  in  the  cars,  to  cover 
the  ground  appointed  for  that  day,  and  to  return 
at  night.  But  it  was  understood  that  there  would 
be  days  when  we  would  get  too  far  away  to  return 
at  night,  and  other  sleeping  quarters  would  be 
provided  on  such  occasions. 

I  grew  very  fond  of  the  place  while  I  was  there. 
The  steady  pounding  of  the  guns  did  not  disturb 


238  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

my  peace  of  nights,  as  a  rule.  But  there  was  one 
night  when  I  did  lie  awake  for  hours,  listening. 
Even  to  my  unpracticed  ear  there  was  a  different 
quality  in  the  sound  of  the  cannon  that  night.  It 
had  a  fury,  an  intensity,  that  went  beyond  any- 
thing I  had  heard.  And  later  I  learned  that  I 
had  made  no  mistake  in  thinking  that  there  was 
something  unusual  and  portentous  about  the  fire 
that  night.  What  I  had  listened  to  was  the  pre- 
liminary drum  fire  and  bombardment  that  pre- 
pared the  way  for  the  great  attack  at  Messines, 
near  Ypres — the  most  terrific  bombardment  re- 
corded in  all  history,  up  to  that  time. 

The  fire  that  night  was  like  a  guttural  chant. 
It  had  a  real  rhythm;  the  beat  of  the  guns  could 
almost  be  counted.  And  at  dawn  there  came  the 
terrific  explosion  of  the  great  mine  that  had  been 
prepared,  which  was  the  signal  for  the  charge. 
Mr.  Lloyd-George,  I  am  told,  knowing  the  exact 
moment  at  which  the  mine  was  to  be  exploded, 
was  awake,  at  home  in  England,  and  heard  it, 
across  the  channel,  and  so  did  many  folk  who  did 
not  have  his  exceptional  sources  of  information. 
I  was  one  of  them !  And  I  wondered  greatly  until 
I  was  told  what  had  been  done.  That  was  one  of 
the  most  brilliantly  and  successfully  executed 
attacks  of  the  whole  war,  and  vastly  important  in 
its  results,  although  it  was,  compared  to  the  great 
battles  on  the  Somme  and  up  north,  near  Arras, 
only  a  small  and  minor  operation. 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  239 

We  settled  down,  very  quickly  indeed,  into  a 
regular  routine.  Captain  Godfrey  was,  for  all  the 
world,  like  the  manager  of  a  traveling  company  in 
America.  He  mapped  out  our  routes,  and  he  took 
care  of  all  the  details.  No  troupe,  covering  a  long 
route  of  one  night  stands  in  the  Western  or  South- 
ern United  States,  ever  worked  harder  than  did 
Hogge,  Adam  and  I — to  say  nothing  of  Godfrey 
and  our  soldier  chauffeurs.  We  did  not  lie  abed 
late  in  the  mornings,  but  were  up  soon  after  day- 
light. Breakfast  out  of  the  way,  we  would  find 
the  cars  waiting  and  be  off. 

We  had,  always,  a  definite  route  mapped  out  for 
the  day,  but  we  never  adhered  to  it  exactly.  I  was 
still  particularly  pleased  with  the  idea  of  giving 
a  roadside  concert  whenever  an  audience  ap- 
peared, and  there  was  no  lack  of  willing  listeners. 
Soon  after  we  had  set  out  from  Tramecourt,  no 
matter  in  which  direction  we  happened  to  be 
going,  we  were  sure  to  run  into  some  body  of 
soldiers. 

There  was  no  longer  any  need  of  orders.  As 
soon  as  the  chauffeur  of  the  leading  car  spied  a 
blotch  of  khaki  against  the  road,  on  went  his 
brakes,  and  we  would  come  sliding  into  the  midst 
of  the  troops  and  stop.  Johnson  would  be  out 
before  his  car  had  fairly  stopped,  and  at  work 
upon  the  lashings  of  the  little  piano,  with  me  to 
help  him.  And  Hogge  would  already  be  clearing 
his  throat  to  begin  his  speech. 


240  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

The  Eeverend  Harry  Lander,  M.P.,  Tour,  em- 
ployed no  press  agent,  and  it  could  not  boast  of 
a  bill  poster.  No  boardings  were  covered  with 
great  colored  sheets  advertising  its  coming.  And 
yet  the  whole  front  seemed  to  know  that  we  were 
about.  The  soldiers  we  met  along  the  roads  wel- 
comed us  gladly,  but  they  were  no  longer,  after 
the  first  day  or  two,  surprised  to  see  us.  They 
acted,  rather,  as  if  they  had  been  expecting  us. 
Our  advent  was  like  that  of  a  circus,  coming  to  a 
country  town  for  a  long  heralded  and  advertised 
engagement.  Yet  all  the  puffing  that  we  got  was 
by  word  of  mouth. 

There  were  some  wonderful  choruses  along 
those  war-worn  roads  we  traveled.  "Roamin'  in 
the  Gloamin'  "  was  still  my  featured  song,  and  all 
the  soldiers  seemed  to  know  the  tune  and  the 
words,  and  to  take  a  particular  delight  in  coming 
in  with  me  as  I  swung  into  the  chorus.  We  never 
passed  a  detachment  of  soldiers  without  stopping 
to  give  them  a  concert,  no  matter  how  it  disar- 
ranged Captain  Godfrey's  plans.  But  he  was  en- 
tirely willing.  It  was  these  men,  on  their  way  to 
the  trenches,  or  on  the  way  out  of  them,  bound 
for  rest  billets,  whom,  of  course,  I  was  most 
anxious  to  reach,  since  I  felt  that  they  were  the 
ones  I  was  most  likely  to  be  able  to  help  and 
cheer  up. 

The  scheduled  concerts  were  practically  all  at 
the  various  rest  billets  we  visited.  These  were, 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  241 

in  the  main,  at  chateaux.  Always,  at  such  a  place, 
I  had  a  double  audience.  The  soldiers  would 
make  a  great  ring,  as  close  to  me  as  they  could 
get,  and  around  them,  again,  in  a  sort  of  outer 
circle,  were  French  villagers  and  peasants,  vastly 
puzzled  and  mystified,  but  eager  to  be  pleased,  and 
very  ready  with  their  applause. 

It  must  have  been  hard  for  them  to  make  up 
their  minds  about  me,  if  they  gave  me  much 
thought.  My  kilt  confused  them;  most  of  them 
thought  I  was  a  soldier  from  some  regiment  they 
had  not  yet  seen,  wearing  a  new  and  strange 
uniform.  For  my  kilt,  I  need  not  say,  was 
not  military,  nor  was  the  rest  of  my  garb 
warlike ! 

I  gave,  during  that  time,  as  many  as  seven  con- 
certs in  a  day.  I  have  sung  as  often  as  thirty-five 
times  in  one  day,  and  on  such  occasions  I  was 
thankful  that  I  had  a  strong  and  durable  voice, 
not  easily  worn  out,  as  well  as  a  stout  physique. 
Hogge  and  Dr.  Adam  appeared  as  often  as  I  did, 
but  they  didn't  have  to  sing! 

Nearly  all  the  songs  I  gave  them  were  ditties 
they  had  known  for  a  long  time.  The  one  excep- 
tion was  the  tune  that  had  been  so  popular  in 
1 1 Three  Cheers" — the  one  called  "The  Laddies 
Who  Fought  and  Won."  Few  of  the  boys  had 
been  home  since  I  had  been  singing  that  song,  but 
it  has  a  catching  lilt,  and  they  were  soon  able  to 
join  in  the  chorus  and  send  it  thundering  along. 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 


They  took  to  it,  too  —  and  well  they  might  !  It  was 
of  such  as  they  that  it  was  written. 

We  covered  perhaps  a  hundred  miles  a  day 
during  this  period.  That  does  not  sound  like  a 
great  distance  for  high-powered  motor  cars,  but 
we  did  a  good  deal  of  stopping,  you  see,  here  and 
there  and  everywhere.  We  were  roaming  around 
in  the  backwater  of  war,  you  might  say.  We  were 
out  of  the  main  stream  of  carnage,  but  it  was  not 
out  of  our  minds  and  our  hearts.  Evidences  of  it 
in  plenty  came  to  us  each  day.  And  each  day  we 
were  a  little  nearer  to  the  front  line  trenches  than 
we  had  come  the  day  before.  We  were  working 
gradually  toward  that  climax  that  I  had  been 
promised. 

I  was  always  eager  to  talk  to  officers  and  men, 
and  I  found  many  chances  to  do  so.  It  seemed  to 
me  that  I  could  never  learn  enough  about  the  sol- 
diers. I  listened  avidly  to  every  story  that  was 
told  to  me,  and  was  always  asking  for  more.  The 
younger  officers,  especially,  it  interested  me  to 
talk  with.  One  day  I  was  talking  to  such  a  lieu- 
tenant. 

"How  is"  the  spirit  of  your  men?"  I  asked  him. 

I  am  going  to  tell  you  his  answer,  just  as  he 
made  it. 

'  '  Their  spirit  ?  "  he  said,  musingly.  '  '  Well,  just 
before  we  came  to  this  billet  to  rest  we  were  in 
a  tightish  corner  on  the  Somme.  One  of  my 
youngest  men  was  hit  —  a  shell  came  near  to  tak- 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  243 

ing  his  arm  clean  off,  so  that  it  was  left  just 
hanging  to  his  shoulders.  He  was  only  about 
eighteen  years  old,  poor  chap.  It  was  a  bad 
wound,  but,  as  sometimes  happens,  it  didn't  make 
him  unconscious — then.  And  when  he  realized 
what  had  happened  to  him,  and  saw  his  arm  hang- 
ing limp,  so  that  he  could  know  he  was  bound  to 
lose  it,  he  began  to  cry. 

"  'What's  the  trouble?'  I  asked  him,  hurrying 
over  to  him.  I  was  sorry  enough  for  him,  but 
you've  got  to  keep  up  the  morale  of  your  men. 
'Soldiers  don't  cry  when  they're  wounded,  my 
lad.' 

"  'I'm  not  crying  because  I'm  wounded,  sir!' 
he  fired  back  at  me.  And  I  won't  say  he  was  quite 
as  respectful  as  a  private  is  supposed  to  be  when 
he's  talking  to  an  officer!  'Just  take  a  look  at 
that,  sir!'  And  he  pointed  to  his  wound.  And 
then  he  cried  out : 

"  'And  I  haven't  killed  a  German  yet!'  he  said, 
bitterly.  'Isn't  that  hard  lines,  sir!' 

"That  is  the  spirit  of  my  men!" 

I  made  many  good  friends  while  I  was  roaming 
around  the  country  just  behind  the  front.  I  won- 
der how  many  of  them  I  shall  keep — how  many  of 
them  death  will  spare  to  shake  my  hand  again 
when  peace  is  restored!  There  was  a  Gordon 
Highlander,  a  fine  young  officer,  of  whom  I  be- 
came particularly  fond  while  I  was  at  Trame- 
court.  I  had  a  very  long  talk  with  him,  and  I 


244  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

thought  of  him  often,  afterward,  because  he  made 
me  think  of  John.  He  was  just  such  a  fine  young 
type  of  Briton  as  my  boy  had  been. 

Months  later,  when  I  was  back  in  Britain,  and 
giving  a  performance  at  Manchester,  there  was  a 
knock  at  the  door  of  my  dressing-room. 

4 'Come  in!"  I  called. 

The  door  was  pushed  open  and  a  man  came  in 
with  great  blue  glasses  covering  his  eyes.  He  had 
a  stick,  and  he  groped  his  way  toward  me.  I  did 
not  know  him  at  all  at  first — and  then,  suddenly, 
with  a  shock,  I  recognized  him  as  my  fine  young 
Gordon  Highlander  of  the  rest  billet  near  Trame- 
court. 

"My  God — it's  you,  Mac!"  I  said,  deeply 
shocked. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  quietly.  His  voice  had  changed, 
greatly.  "Yes,  it's  I,  Harry." 

He  was  almost  totally  blind,  and  he  did  not 
know  whether  his  eyes  would  get  better  or  worse. 

"Do  you  remember  all  the  lads  you  met  at  the 
billet  where  you  came  to  sing  for  us  the  first  time 
I  met  you,  Harry?"  he  asked  me.  "Well,  they're 
all  gone — I'm  the  only  one  who's  left — the  only 
one!" 

There  was  grief  in  his  voice.  But  there  was 
nothing  like  complaint,  nor  was  there,  nor  self- 
pity,  either,  when  he  told  me  about  his  eyes  and 
his  doubts  as  to  whether  he  would  ever  really  see 
again.  He  passed  his  own  troubles  off  lightly,  as 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  245 

if  they  did  not  matter  at  all.  He  preferred  to  tell 
me  about  those  of  his  friends  whom  I  had  met, 
and  to  give  me  the  story  of  how  this  one  and  that 
one  had  gone.  And  he  is  like  many  another.  I 
know  a  great  many  men  who  have  been  maimed 
in  the  war,  but  I  have  still  to  hear  one  of  them 
complain.  They  were  brave  enough,  God  knows, 
in  battle,  but  I  think  they  are  far  braver  when 
they  come  home,  shattered  and  smashed,  and  do 
naught  but  smile  at  their  troubles. 

The  only  sort  of  complaining  you  hear  from 
British  soldiers  is  over  minor  discomforts  in  the 
field.  Tommy  and  Jock  will  grouse  when  they 
are  so  disposed.  They  will  growl  about  the  food 
and  about  this  trivial  trouble  and  that.  But  it 
is  never  about  a  really  serious  matter  that  you 
hear  them  talking ! 

^  I  have  never  yet  met  a  man  who  had  been  per- 
manently disabled  who  was  not  grieving  because 
he  could  not  go  back.  And  it  is  strange  but  true 
that  men  on  leave  get  homesick  for  the  trenches 
sometimes.  They  miss  the  companionships  they 
have  had  in  the  trenches.  I  think  it  must  be  be- 
cause all  the  best  men  in  the  world  are  in  France 
that  they  feel  so.  But  it  is  true,  I  know,  because 
I  have  not  heard  it  once,  but  a  dozen  times. 

Men  will  dream  of  home  and  Blighty  for  weeks 
and  months.  They  will  grouse  because  they  can- 
not get  leave — though,  half  the  time,  they  have 
not  even  asked  for  it,  because  they  feel  that  their 


246  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

place  is  where  the  fighting  is!  And  then,  when 
they  do  get  that  longed-for  leave,  they  are  half 
sorry  to  go — and  they  come  back  like  boys  coming 
home  from  school! 

A  great  reward  awaits  the  men  who  fight 
through  this  war  and  emerge  alive  and  triumphant 
at  its  end.  They  will  dictate  the  conduct  of  the 
world  for  many  a  year.  The  men  who  stayed  at 
home  when  they  should  have  gone  may  as  well 
prepare  to  drop,their  voices  to  a  very  low  whisper 
in  the  affairs  of  mankind.  For  the  men  who  will 
be  heard,  who  will  make  themselves  heard,  are 
out  there  in  France. 


CHAPTER  XX 

IT  was  seven  o  'clock  in  the  morning  of  a  Godly 
and  a  beautiful  day  when  we  set  out  from 
Tramecourt  for  Arras.  Arras,  that  town  so 
famous  now  in  British  history  and  in  the  annals 
of  this  war,  had  been  one  of  our  principal  objec- 
tives from  the  outset,  but  we  had  not  known  when 
we  were  to  see  it.  Arras  had  been  the  pivot  of 
the  great  northern  drive  in  the  spring — the  drive 
that  Hindenburg  had  fondly  supposed  he  had 
spoiled  by  his  "strategic"  retreat  in  the  region  of 
the  Somme,  begun  just  before  the  British  and  the 
French  were  ready  to  attack. 

What  a  bonnie  morning  that  was,  to  be  sure! 
The  sun  was  out,  after  some  rainy  days,  and  glad 
we  all  were  to  see  it.  The  land  wa&  sprayed  with 
silver  light ;  the  air  was  as  sweet  and  as  soft  and 
as  warm  as  a  baby's  breath.  And  the  cars  seemed 
to  leap  forward,  as  if  they,  too,  loved  the  day  and 
the  air.  They  ate  up  the  road.  They  seemed  to 
take  hold  of  its  long,  smooth  surface — they  are 
grand  roads,  over  yon,  in  France — and  reel  it  up 
in  underneath  their  wheels  as  if  it  were  a  tape. 

This  time  we  did  little  stopping,  no  matter  how 
good  the  reason  looked.  We  went  hurtling  through 
villages  and  towns  we  had  not  seen  before.  Our 

247 


248  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

horn  and  our  siren  shrieked  a  warning  as  we  shot 
through.  And  it  seemed  wrong.  They  looked  so 
peaceful  and  so  quiet,  did  those  French  towns,  on 
that  summer's  morning!  Peaceful,  aye,  and  lan- 
guorous, after  all  the  bustle  and  haste  we  had 
been  seeing.  The  houses  were  set  in  pretty  en- 
casements of  bright  foliage  and  they  looked  as 
though  they  had  been  painted  against  the  back- 
ground of  the  landscape  with  water  colors. 

It  was  hard  to  believe  that  war  had  passed  that 
way.  It  had ;  there  were  traces  everywhere  of  its 
grim  visitation.  But  here  its  heavy  hand  had 
been  laid  lightly  upon  town  and  village.  It  was 
as  if  a  wave  of  poison  gas  of  the  sort  the  Germans 
brought  into  war  had  been  turned  aside  by  a 
friendly  breeze,  arising  in  the  very  nick  of  time. 
Little  harm  had  been  done  along  the  road  we  trav- 
eled. But  the  thunder  of  the  guns  was  always  in 
our  ears;  we  could  hear  the  steady,  throbbing 
rhythm  of  the  cannon,  muttering  away  to  the 
north  and  east. 

It  was  very  warm,  and  so,  after  a  time,  as  we 
passed  through  a  village,  someone — Hogge,  I 
think — suggested  that  a  bottle  of  ginger  beer  all 
around  would  not  be  amiss.  The  idea  seemed  to 
be  regarded  as  an  excellent  one,  so  Godfrey  spoke 
to  the  chauffeur  beside  him,  and  we  stopped.  We 
had  not  known,  at  first,  that  there  were  troops  in 
town.  But  there  were — Highlanders.  And  they 
came  swarming  out.  I  was  recognized  at  once, 


'A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  249 

"Well,  here's  old  Harry  Lauder!"  cried  one 
braw  laddie. 

"Come  on,  Harry — gie  us  a  song!"  they 
shouted.  " Let's  have  'Koamin'  in  the  Gloamin', 
Harry!  Gie  us  the  Bonnie  Lassie!  We  ha'  na' 
heard  'The  Laddies  Who  Fought  and  Won,' 
Harry.  They  tell  us  that's  a  braw  song!" 

We  were  not  really  supposed  to  give  any  road- 
side concerts  that  day,  but  how  was  I  to  resist 
them?  So  we  pulled  up  into  a  tiny  side  street, 
just  off  the  market  square,  and  I  sang  several 
songs  for  them.  We  saved  time  by  not  unlimber- 
ing  the  wee  piano,  and  I  sang,  without  accompani- 
ment, standing  up  in  the  car.  But  they  seemed 
to  be  as  well  pleased  as  though  I  had  had  the 
orchestra  of  a  big  theater  to  support  me,  and  all 
the  accompaniments  and  trappings  of  the  stage. 
They  were  very  loath  to  let  me  go,  and  I  don't 
know  how  much  time  we  really  saved  by  not  giv- 
ing our  full  and  regular  programme.  For,  before 
I  had  done,  they  had  me  telling  stories,  too. 
Captain  Godfrey  was  smiling,  but  he  was  glanc- 
ing at  his  watch  too,  and  he  nudged  me,  at  last, 
and  made  me  realize  that  it  was  time  for  us  to 
go  on,  no  matter  how  interesting  it  might  be  to 
stay. 

"I'll  be  good,"  I  promised,  with  a  grin,  as  we 
drove  on.  "We  shall  go  straight  on  to  Arras 
now ! ' ' 

But  we  did  not.    We  met  a  bunch  of  engineers 


250  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

on  the  road,  after  a  space,  and  they  looked  so 
wistful  when  we  told  them  we  maun  be  getting 
right  along,  without  stopping  to  sing  for  them, 
that  I  had  not  the  heart  to  disappoint  them.  So 
we  got  out  the  wee  piano  and  I  sang  them  a  few 
songs.  It  seemed  to  mean  so  much  to  those  boys 
along  the  roads!  I  think  they  enjoyed  the  con- 
certs even  more  than  did  the  great  gatherings 
that  were  assembled  for  me  at  the  rest  camps.  A 
concert  was  more  of  a  surprise  for  them,  more 
of  a  treat.  The  other  laddies  liked  them,  too — 
aye,  they  liked  them  fine.  But  they  would  have 
been  prepared,  sometimes ;  they  would  have  been 
looking  forward  to  the  fun.  And  the  laddies 
along  the  roads  took  them  as  a  man  takes  a  grand 
bit  of  scenery,  coming  before  his  eyes,  suddenly, 
as  he  turns  a  bend  in  a  road  he  does  not  ken. 

As  for  myself,  I  felt  that  I  was  becoming  quite 
a  proficient  open-air  performer  by  now.  My 
voice  was  standing  the  strain  of  singing  under 
such  novel  and  difficult  conditions  much  better 
than  I  had  thought  it  could.  And  I  saw  that  I 
must  be  at  heart  and  by  nature  a  minstrel!  I 
know  I  got  more  pleasure  from  those  concerts 
I  gave  as  a  minstrel  wandering  in  France  than 
did  the  soldiers  or  any  of  those  who  heard  me ! 

I  have  been  before  the  public  for  many  years. 
Applause  has  always  been  sweet  to  me.  It  is  to 
any  artist,  and  when  one  tells  you  it  is  not  you 
may  set  it  down  in  your  hearts  that  he  or  she  is 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  251 

telling  less  than  the  truth.  It  is  the  breath  of  life 
to  us  to  know  that  folks  are  pleased  by  what  we 
do  for  them.  Why  else  would  we  go  on  about  our 
tasks?  I  have  had  much  applause.  I  have  had 
many  honors.  I  have  told  you  about  that  great 
and  overwhelming  reception  that  greeted  me  when 
I  sailed  into  Sydney  Harbor.  In  Britain,  in 
America,  I  have  had  greetings  that  have  brought 
tears  into  my  eye  and  such  a  lump  into  my  throat 
that  until  it  had  gone  down  I  could  not  sing  or  say 
a  word  of  thanks. 

But  never  has  applause  sounded  so  sweet  to 
me  as  it  did  along  those  dusty  roads  in  France, 
with  the  poppies  gleaming  red  and  the  corn- 
flowers blue  through  the  yellow  fields  of  grain 
beside  the  roads!  They  cheered  me,  do  you  ken 
— those  tired  and  dusty  heroes  of  Britain  along 
the  French  roads  1  They  cheered  as  they  squatted 
down  in  a  circle  about  us,  me  in  my  kilt,  and 
Johnson  tinkling  away  as  if  his  very  life  depended 
upon  it,  at  his  wee  piano !  Ah,  those  wonderful, 
wonderful  soldiers!  The  tears  come  into  my 
eyes,  and  my  heart  is  sore  and  heavy  within  me 
when  I  think  that  mine  was  the  last  voice  many 
of  them  ever  heard  lifted  in  song !  They  were  on 
their  way  to  the  trenches,  so  many  of  those  lad- 
dies who  stopped  for  a  song  along  the  road.  And 
when  men  are  going  into  the  trenches  they  know, 
and  all  who  see  them  passing  know,  that  some 
there  are  who  will  never  come  out. 


252  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

Despite  all  the  interruptions,  though,  it  was  not 
much  after  noon  when  we  reached  Blangy.  Here, 
in  that  suburb  of  Arras,  were  the  headquarters 
of  the  Ninth  Division,  and  as  I  stepped  out  of  the 
car  I  thrilled  to  the  knowledge  that  I  was  tread- 
ing ground  forever  to  be  famous  as  the  starting- 
point  of  the  Highland  Brigade  in  the  attack  of 
April  9, 1917. 

And  now  I  saw  Arras,  and,  for  the  first  time, 
a  town  that  had  been  systematically  and  ruth- 
lessly shelled.  There  are  no  words  in  any  tongue 
I  know  to  give  you  a  fitting  picture  of  the  devasta- 
tion of  Arras.  " Awful"  is  a  puny  word,  a  thin 
one,  a  feeble  one.  I  pick  impotently  at  the  cover- 
lid of  my  imagination  when  I  try  to  frame  lan- 
guage to  make  you  understand  what  it  was  I  saw 
when  I  came  to  Arras  on  that  bright  June  day. 

I  think  the  old  city  of  Arras  should  never  be 
rebuilt.  I  doubt  if  it  can  be  rebuilt,  indeed.  But 
I  think  that,  whether  or  no,  a  golden  fence  should 
be  built  around  it,  and  it  should  forever  and  for 
all  time  be  preserved  as  a  monument  to  the  wan- 
ton wickedness  of  the  Hun.  It  should  serve  and 
stand,  in  its  stark  desolation,  as  a  tribute,  dedi- 
cated to  the  Kultur  of  Germany.  No  painter 
could  depict  the  frightfulness  of  that  city  of  the 
dead.  No  camera  could  make  you  see  as  it  is. 
Only  your  eyes  can  do  that  for  you.  And  even 
then  you  cannot  realize  it  all  at  once.  Your  eyes 
are  more  merciful  than  the  truth  and  the  Hun. 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  253 

The  Germans  shelled  Arras  long  after  there 
was  any  military  reason  for  doing  so.  The  sheer, 
wanton  love  of  destruction  must  have  moved 
them.  They  had  destroyed  its  military  useful- 
ness, but  still  they  poured  shot  and  shell  into  the 
town.  I  went  through  its  streets — the  Germans 
had  been  pushed  back  so  far  by  then  that  the  city 
was  no  longer  under  steady  fire.  But  they  had 
done  their  work ! 

Nobody  was  living  in  Arras.  No  one  could 
have  lived  there.  The  houses  had  been  smashed 
to  pieces.  The  pavements  were  dust  and  rubble. 
But  there  was  life  in  the  city.  Through  the  ruins 
our  men  moved  as  ceaselessly  and  as  restlessly  as 
the  tenants  of  an  ant  hill  suddenly  upturned  by 
a  plowshare.  Soldiers  were  everywhere,  and 
guns — guns,  guns !  For  Arras  had  a  new  impor- 
tance now.  It  was  a  center  for  many  roads. 
Some  of  the  most  important  supply  roads  of  this 
sector  of  the  front  converged  in  Arras. 

Trains  of  ammunition  trucks,  supply  carts  and 
wagons  of  all  sorts,  great  trucks  laden  with  jam 
and  meat  and  flour,  all  were  passing  every  mo- 
ment. There  was  an  incessant  din  of  horses '  feet 
and  the  steady  crunch — crunch  of  heavy  boots  as 
the  soldiers  marched  through  the  rubble  and  the 
brickdust.  And  I  knew  that  all  this  had  gone  on 
while  the  town  was  still  under  fire.  Indeed,  even 
now,  an  occasional  shell  from  some  huge  gun  came 
crashing  into  the  town,  and  there  would  be  a  new 


254  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

cloud  of  dust  arising  to  mark  its  landing,  a  new 
collapse  of  some  weakened  wall.  Warning  signs 
were  everywhere  about,  bidding  all  who  saw  them 
to  beware  of  the  imminent  collapse  of  some  heap 
of  masonry. 

I  saw  what  the  Germans  had  left  of  the  stately 
old  Cathedral,  and  of  the  famous  Cloth  Hall — one 
of  the  very  finest  examples  of  the  guild  halls  of 
medieval  times.  Goths — Vandals — no,  it  is  unfair 
to  seek  such  names  for  the  Germans.  They 
have  established  themselves  as  the  masters  of  all 
time  in  brutality  and  in  destruction.  There  is  no 
need  to  call  them  anything  but  Germans.  The 
Cloth  Hall  was  almost  human  in  its  pitiful  appeal 
to  the  senses  and  the  imagination.  The  German 
fire  had  picked  it  to  pieces,  so  that  it  stood  in  a 
stark  outline,  like  some  carcase  picked  bare  by  a 
vulture. 

Our  soldiers  who  were  quartered  nearby  lived 
outside  the  town  in  huts.  They  were  the  men  of 
the  Highland  Brigade,  and  the  ones  I  had  hoped 
and  wished,  above  all  others,  to  meet  when  I  came 
to  France.  They  received  our  party  with  the 
greatest  enthusiasm,  and  they  were  especially 
flattering  when  they  greeted  me.  One  of  the 
Highland  officers  took  me  in  hand  immediately, 
to  show  me  the  battlefield. 

The  ground  over  which  we  moved  had  literally 
been  churned  by  shell-fire.  It  was  neither  dirt 
nor  mud  that  we  walked  upon;  it  was  a  sort  of 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  255 

powder.  The  very  soil  had  been  decomposed  into 
a  fine  dust  by  the  terrific  pounding  it  had  re- 
ceived. The  dust  rose  and  got  into  our  eyes  and 
mouths  and  nostrils.  There  was  a  lot  of  sneez- 
ing among  the  members  of  the  Reverend  Harry 
Lauder,  M.P.,  Tour  that  day  at  Arras !  And  the 
wire!  It  was  strewn  in  every  direction,  with 
seeming  aimlessness.  Heavily  barbed  it  was,  and 
bad  stuff  to  get  caught  in.  One  of  the  great 
reasons  for  the  preliminary  bombardment  that 
usually  precedes  an  attack  is  to  cut  this  wire.  If 
charging  men  are  caught  in  a  bad  tangle  of  wire 
they  can  be  wiped  out  by  machine  gun-fire  before 
they  can  get  clear. 

I  asked  a  Highlander,  one  day,  how  long  he 
thought  the  war  would  last. 

"Forty  years,"  he  said,  never  batting  an  eye- 
lid. "We'll  be  fighting  another  year,  and  then 
it'll  tak  us  thirty-nine  years  more  to  wind  up  all 
the  wire!" 

Off  to  my  right  there  was  a  network  of  steel 
strands,  and  as  I  gazed  at  it  I  saw  a  small  dark 
object  hanging  from  it  and  fluttering  in  the 
breeze.  I  was  curious  enough  to  go  over,  and  I 
picked  my  way  carefully  through  the  maze-like 
network  of  wire  to  see  what  it  might  be.  When 
I  came  close  I  saw  it  was  a  bit  of  cloth,  and  imme- 
diately I  recognized  the  tartan  of  the  Black 
Watch — the  famous  Forty-second.  Mud  and  blood 
held  that  bit  of  cloth  fastened  to  the  wire,  as  if 


256  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

by  a  cement.  Plainly,  it  had  been  torn  from  a 
kilt. 

I  stood  for  a  moment,  looking  down  at  that  bit 
of  tartan,  flapping  in  the  soft  summer  breeze. 
And  as  I  stood  I  could  look  out  and  over  the 
landscape,  dotted  with  a  very  forest  of  little 
wooden  crosses,  that  marked  the  last  resting-place 
of  the  men  who  had  charged  across  this  maze  of 
wire  and  died  within  it.  They  rose,  did  those 
rough  crosses,  like  sheathed  swords  out  of  the 
wild,  luxurious  jungle  of  grass  that  had  grown  up 
in  that  blood-drenched  soil.  I  wondered  if  the 
owner  of  the  bit  of  tartan  were  still  safe  or  if  he 
lay  under  one  of  the  crosses  that  I  saw. 

There  was  room  for  sad  speculation  here! 
Who  had  he  been?  Had  he  swept  on,  leaving  that 
bit  of  his  kilt  as  evidence  of  his  passing?  Had 
he  been  one  of  those  who  had  come  through  the 
attack,  gloriously,  to  victory,  so  that  he  could 
look  back  upon  that  day  so  long  as  he  lived?  Or 
was  he  dead — perhaps  within  a  hundred  yards  of 
where  I  stood  and  gazed  down  at  that  relic  of 
him?  Had  he  folks  at  hame  in  Scotland  who  had 
gone  through  days  of  anguish  on  his  account — 
such  days  of  anguish  as  I  had  known? 

I  asked  a  soldier  for  some  wire  clippers,  and  I 
cut  the  wire  on  either  side  of  that  bit  of  tartan, 
and  took  it,  just  as  it  was.  And  as  I  put  the  wee 
bit  of  a  brave  man's  kilt  away  I  kissed  the  blood- 


5 


^ 


y^ 


Berlin  struck  off 
this  medal  when  the 
"Lusitania"was  sunk: 
on  one  side  the  brutal 
catastrophe,  on  the 
other  the  grinning 
death's  head  Teuton- 
ically  exultant.  "And 
so  now  I  preach  the 
war  on  the  Hun  my 
own  way,"  says  Harry 
Lauder. 


HARRY  LAUDER 
"  Laird  of  Dunoon." 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  257 

stained  tartan,  for  Auld  Lang  Syne,  and  thought 
of  what  a  tale  it  could  tell  if  it  could  only 
speak! 

"Ha'  ye  seen  a'  the  men  frae  the  braes  and  the  glen, 
Ha'  ye  seen  them  a'  marchin'  awa'? 
Ha'  ye  seen  a'  the  men  frae  the  wee  but-an'-ben, 
And  the  gallants  frae  mansion  and  ha'?" 

I  have  said  before  that  I  do  not  want  to  tell 
you  of  the  tales  of  atrocities  that  I  heard  in 
France.  I  heard  plenty — aye^  and  terrible  they 
were!  But  I  dinna  wish  to  harrow  the  feelings 
of  those  who  read  more  than  I  need,  and  I  will 
leave  that  task  to  those  who  saw  for  themselves 
with  their  eyes,  when  I  had  but  my  ears  to  serve 
me.  Yet  there  was  one  blood-chilling  story  that 
my  boy  John  told  to  me,  and  that  the  finding  of 
that  bit  of  Black  Watch  tartan  brings  to  my  mind. 
He  told  it  to  me  as  we  sat  before  the  fire  in  my 
wee  hoose  at  Dunoon,  just  a  few  nights  before  he 
went  back  to  the  front  for  the  last  time.  We  were 
talking  of  the  war — what  else  was  there  to  talk 
aboot? 

It  was  seldom  that  John  touched  on  the  harsher 
things  he  knew  about  the  war.  He  preferred,  as 
a  rule,  to  tell  me  stories  of  the  courage  and  the 
devotion  of  his  men,  and  of  the  light  way  that 
they  turned  things  when  there  was  so  much  chance 
for  grief  and  care. 

"One  night,  Pad,"  lie  said,  "we  had  a  battalion 


258  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

of  the  Black  Watch  on  our  right,  and  they  made  a 
pretty  big  raid  on  the  German  trenches.  It  devel- 
oped into  a  sizable  action  for  any  other  war,  but 
one  trifling  enough  and  unimportant  in  this  one. 
The  Germans  had  been  readier  than  the  Black 
Watch  had  supposed,  and  had  reinforcements 
ready,  and  sixty  of  the  Highlanders  were  cap- 
tured. The  Germans  took  them  back  into  their 
trenches,  and  stripped  them  to  the  skin.  Not  a 
stitch  or  a  rag  of  clothing  did  they  leave  them, 
and,  though  it  was  April,  it  was  a  bitter  night, 
with  a  wind  to  cut  even  a  man  warmly  clad  to  the 
bone. 

"All  night  they  kept  them  there,  standing  at 
attention,  stark  naked,  so  that  they  were  half- 
frozen  when  the  gray,  cold  light  of  the  dawn  be- 
gan to  show  behind  them  in  the  east.  And  then  the 
Germans  laughed,  and  told  their  prisoners  to  go. 

"  'Go  on — go  back  to  your  own  trenches,  as  you 
are ! '  they  said. 

"The  laddies  of  the  Black  Watch  could  scarcely 
believe  their  ears.  There  was  about  seventy-five 
yards  between  the  two  trench  lines  at  that  point, 
and  the  No  Man's  Land  was  rough  going — all 
shell-pitted  as  it  was.  By  that  time,  too,  of 
course,  German  repair  parties  had  mended  all  the 
wire  before  their  trenches.  So  they  faced  a  rough 
journey,  all  naked  as  they  were.  But  they 
started. 

"They  got  through  the  wire,  with  the  Germans 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  259 

laughing  fit  to  kill  themselves  at  the  sight  of  the 
streaks  of  blood  showing  on  their  white  skins  as 
the  wire  got  in  its  work.  They  laughed  at  them, 
Dad!  And  then,  when  they  were  halfway  across 
the  No  Man's  Land  they  understood,  at  last,  why 
the  Germans  had  let  them  go.  For  fire  was 
opened  on  them  with  machine  guns.  Everyone 
was  mowed  down — everyone  of  those  poor,  naked, 
bleeding  lads  was  killed — murdered  by  that  treach- 
erous fire  from  behind! 

"We  heard  all  the  details  of  that  dirty  bit  of 
treachery  later.  We  captured  some  German  pris- 
oners from  that  very  trench.  Fritz  is  a  decent 
enough  sort,  sometimes,  and  there  were  men  there 
whose  stomachs  were  turned  by  that  sight,  so  that 
they  were  glad  to  creep  over,  later,  and  surrender. 
They  told  us,  with  tears  in  their  eyes.  But  we 
had  known,  before  that.  We  had  needed  no  wit- 
nesses except  the  bodies  of  the  boys.  It  had  been 
too  dark  for  the  men  in  our  trenches  to  see  what 
was  going  on — and  a  burst  of  machine  gun-fire, 
along  the  trenches,  is  nothing  to  get  curious  or 
excited  about.  But  those  naked  bodies,  lying 
there  in  the  No  Man's  Land,  had  told  us  a  good 
deal. 

"Dad — that  was  an  awful  sight !  I  was  in  com- 
mand of  one  of  the  burying  parties  we  had  to 
send  out." 

That  was  the  tale  I  thought  of  when  I  found 
that  bit  of  the  Black  Watch  tartan.  And  I  remem- 


260  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

bered,  too,  that  it  was  with  the  Black  Watch  that 
John  Poe,  the  famous  American  football  player 
from  Princeton,  met  his  death  in  a  charge.  He 
had  been  offered  a  commission,  but  he  preferred 
to  stay  with  the  boys  in  the  ranks. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

WE  left  our  motor  cars  behind  us  in  Arras, 
for  to-day  we  were  to  go  to  a  front-line 
trench,  and  the  climax  of  my  whole  trip, 
so  far  as  I  could  foresee,  was  at  hand.  Johnson 
and  the  wee  piano  had  to  stay  behind,  too — we 
could  not  expect  to  carry  even  so  tiny  an  instru- 
ment as  that  into  a  front-line  trench !  Once  more 
we  had  to  don  steel  helmets,  but  there  was  a  great 
difference  between  these  and  the  ones  we  had  had 
at  Vimy  Eidge.  Mine  fitted  badly,  and  kept  sliding 
down  over  my  ears,  or  else  slipping  way  down  to 
the  back  of  my  head.  It  must  have  given  me  a 
grotesque  look,  and  it  was  most  uncomfortable. 
So  I  decided  I  would  take  it  off  and  carry  it  for  a 
while. 

"You'd  better  keep  it  on,  Harry,"  Captain 
Godfrey  advised  me.  "This  district  is  none  too 
safe,  even  right  here,  and  it  gets  worse  as  we  go 
along.  A  whistling  Percy  may  come  along  look- 
ing for  you  any  minute." 

That  is  the  name  of  a  shell  that  is  good  enough 
to  advertise  its  coming  by  a  whistling,  shrieking 
sound.  I  could  hear  Percies  whistling  all  around, 
and  see  them  spattering  up  the  ground  as  they 

261 


262  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

struck,  not  so  far  away,  but  they  did  not  seem  to 
be  coming  in  our  direction.  So  I  decided  I  would 
take  a  chance. 

"Well,"  I  said,  as  I  took  the  steel  hat  off,  "I'll 
just  keep  this  bonnet  handy  and  slip  it  on  if  I  see 
Percy  coming." 

But  later  I  was  mighty  glad  of  even  an  ill-fitting 
steel  helmet ! 

Several  staff  officers  from  the  Highland  Bri- 
gade had  joined  the  Eeverend  Harry  Lauder, 
M.P.,  Tour  by  now.  Affable,  pleasant  gentlemen 
they  were,  and  very  eager  to  show  us  all  there 
was  to  be  seen.  And  they  had  more  sights  to  show 
their  visitors  than  most  hosts  have! 

We  were  on  ground  now  that  had  been  held  by 
the  Germans  before  the  British  had  surged  for- 
ward all  along  this  line  in  the  April  battle.  Their 
old  trenches,  abandoned  now,  ran  like  deep  fis- 
sures through  the  soil.  They  had  been  pretty 
well  blasted  to  pieces  by  the  British  bombard- 
ment, but  a  good  many  of  their  deep,  concrete 
dugouts  had  survived.  These  were  not  being 
used  by  the  British  here,  but  were  saved  in  good 
repair  as  show  places,  and  the  officers  who  were 
our  guides  took  us  down  into  some  of  them. 

Earely  comfortable  they  must  have  been,  too! 
They  had  been  the  homes  of  German  officers,  and 
the  Hun  officers  did  themselves  very  well  indeed 
when  they  had  the  chance.  They  had  electric 
light  in  their  cave  houses.  To  be  sure  they  had 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 


used  German  wall  paper,  and  atrociously  ugly 
stuff  it  was,  too.  But  it  pleased  their  taste,  no 
doubt.  Mightily  amazed  some  of  Fritz's  officers 
must  have  been,  back  in  April,  as  they  sat  and 
took  their  ease  in  these  luxurious  quarters,  to 
have  Jock  come  tumbling  in  upon  them,  a  grenade 
in  each  hand  ! 

Our  men  might  have  used  these  dugouts,  and 
been  snug  enough  in  them,  but  they  preferred  air 
and  ventilation,  and  lived  in  little  huts  above  the 
ground.  I  left  our  party  and  went  around  among 
them  and,  to  my  great  satisfaction,  found,  as  I 
had  been  pretty  sure  I  would,  a  number  of  old 
acquaintances  and  old  admirers  who  came  crowd- 
ing around  me  to  shake  hands.  I  made  a  great 
collection  of  souvenirs  here,  for  they  insisted  on 
pressing  trophies  upon  me. 

"Tak  them,  Harry,"  said  one  after  another. 
"We  can  get  plenty  more  where  they  came 
from!" 

One  laddie  gave  me  a  helmet  with  a  bullet  hole 
through  the  skip,  and  another  presented  me  with 
one  of  the  most  interesting  souvenirs  of  all  I  car- 
ried home  from  France.  That  was  a  German 
sniper's  outfit.  It  consisted  of  a  suit  of  overalls, 
waterproofed.  If  a  man  had  it  on  he  would  be 
completely  covered,  from  head  to  foot,  with  just 
a  pair  of  slits  for  his  eyes  to  peep  out  of,  and 
another  for  his  mouth,  so  that  he  could  breathe. 
It  was  cleverly  painted  the  color  of  a  tree  —  part 


264  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

of  it  like  the  bark,  part  green,  like  leaves  sprout- 
ing from  it. 

"Eh,  Jock,"  I  asked  the  laddie  who  gave  it  to 
me.  "A  thing  like  yon's  hard  to  be  getting,  I'm 
thinking?" 

"Oh,  not  so  very  hard,"  he  answered,  care- 
lessly. "You've  got  to  be  a  good  shot."  And  he 
wore  medals  that  showed  he  was!  "All  you've 
got  to  do,  Harry,  is  to  kill  the  chap  inside  it  be- 
fore he  kills  you!  The  fellow  who  used  to  own 
that  outfit  you've  got  hid  himself  in  the  fork  of 
a  tree,  and,  as  you  may  guess,  he  looked  like  a 
branch  of  the  tree  itself.  He  was  pretty  hard  to 
spot.  But  I  got  suspicious  of  him,  from  the  way 
bullets  were  coming  over  steadily,  and  I  decided 
that  that  tree  hid  a  sniper. 

"After  that  it  was  just  a  question  of  being  pa- 
tient. It  was  no  so  long  before  I  was  sure,  and 
then  I  waited — until  I  saw  that  branch  move  as 
no  branch  of  a  tree  ever  did  move.  I  fired  then 
— and  got  him!  He  was  away  outside  of  his  lines, 
and  that  nicht  I  slipped  out  and  brought  back  this 
outfit.  I  wanted  to  see  how  it  was  made." 

An  old,  grizzled  sergeant  of  the  Black  Watch 
gave  me  a  German  revolver. 

"How  came  you  to  get  this?"  I  asked  him. 

"It  was  an  acceedent,  Harry,"  he  said.  "We 
were  raiding  a  trench,  do  you  ken,  and  I  was  in 
a  sap  when  a  German  officer  came  along,  and  we 
bumped  into  one  another.  He  looked  at  me,  and 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  265' 

I  at  him.  I  think  he  was  goin'  to  say  something, 
but  I  dinna  ken  what  it  was  he  had  on  his  mind. 
That  was  his  revolver  you've  got  in  your  hand 
now. ' ' 

And  then  he  thrust  his  hand  into  his  pocket. 

"Here's  the  watch  he  used  to  carry,  too,"  he 
said.  It  was  a  thick,  fat-bellied  affair,  of  solid 
gold.  "It's  a  bit  too  big,  but  it's  a  rare  good 
timekeeper. '  ' 

Soon  after  that  an  officer  gave  me  another 
trophy  that  is,  perhaps,  even  more  interesting 
than  the  sniper's  suit.  It  is  rarer,  at  least.  It  is 
a  small,  sweet-toned  bell  that  used  to  hang  in  a 
wee  church  in  the  small  village  of  Athies,  on  the 
Scarpe,  about  a  mile  and  a  half  from  Arras.  The 
Germans  wiped  out  church  and  village,  but  in 
some  odd  way  they  found  the  bell  and  saved  it. 
They  hung  it  in  their  trenches,  and  it  was  used 
to  sound  a  gas  alarm.  On  both  sides  a  signal  is 
given  when  the  sentry  sees  that  there  is  to  be  a 
gas  attack,  in  order  that  the  men  may  have  time 
to  don  the  clumsy  gas  masks  that  are  the  only 
protection  against  the  deadly  fumes.  The  wee 
bell  is  eight  inches  high,  maybe,  and  I  have  never 
heard  a  lovelier  tone. 

*  *  That  bell  has  rung  men  to  worship,  and  it  has 
rung  them  to  death,"  said  the  officer  who  gave  it 
to  me. 

Presently  I  was  called  back  to  my  party,  after 
I  had  spent  some  time  with  the  lads  in  their  huts. 


266  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

A  general  had  joined  the  party  now,  and  he  told 
me,  with  a  smile,  that  I  was  to  go  up  to  the 
trenches,  if  I  cared  to  do  so.  I  will  not  say  I  was 
not  a  bit  nervous,  but  I  was  glad  to  go,  for  a'  that ! 
It  was  the  thing  that  had  brought  me  to  France, 
after  a'. 

So  we  started,  and  by  now  I  was  glad  to  wear 
my  steel  hat,  fit  or  no  fit.  I  was  to  give  an  enter- 
tainment in  the  trenches,  and  so  we  set  out.  Pretty 
soon  I  was  climbing  a  steep  railroad  embank- 
ment, and  when  we  slid  down  on  the  other  side  we 
found  the  trenches — wide,  deep  gaps  in  the  earth, 
and  all  alive  with  men.  We  got  into  the  trenches 
themselves  by  means  of  ladders,  and  the  soldiers 
came  swarming  about  me  with  yells  of  "  Hello, 
Harry!  Welcome,  Harry!" 

They  were  told  that  I  had  come  to  sing  for 
them,  and  so,  with  no  further  preliminaries,  I  be- 
gan my  concert.  I  started  with  my  favorite  open- 
ing song,  as  usual — "Roamin'  in  the  Gloamin','' 
and  then  went  on  with  the  other  old  favorites.  I 
told  a  lot  of  stories,  too,  and  then  I  came  to  ''The 
Laddies  Who  Fought  and  Won."  None  of  the 
men  had  heard  it,  but  there  were  officers  there  who 
had  seen  " Three  Cheers"  during  the  winter  when 
they  had  had  a  short  leave  to  run  over  to  London. 

I  got  through  the  first  verse  all  right,  and  was 
just  swinging  into  the  first  chorus  when,  without 
the  least  warning,  hell  popped  open  in  that  trench. 
A  missile  came  in  that  some  officer  at  once  hailed 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  267 

as  a  whizz  bang.  It  is  called  that,  for  that  is  just 
exactly  the  sound  it  makes.  It  is  like  a  giant  fire- 
cracker, and  it  would  be  amusing  if  one  did  not 
know  it  was  deadly.  These  missiles  are  not  fired 
by  the  big  guns  behind  the  lines,  but  by  the  small 
trench  cannon — worked,  as  a  rule,  by  compressed 
air.  The  range  is  very  short,  but  they  are  capable 
of  great  execution  at  that  range. 

Was  I  frightened?  I  must  have  been !  I  know 
I  felt  a  good  deal  as  I  have  done  when  I  have  been 
seasick.  And  I  began  to  think  at  once  of  all  sorts 
of  places  where  I  would  rather  have  been  than  in 
that  trench !  I  was  standing  on  a  slight  elevation 
at  the  back,  or  parados,  of  the  trench,  so  that  I 
was  raised  a  bit  above  my  audience,  and  I  had  a 
fine  view  of  that  deadly  thing,  wandering  about, 
spitting  fire  and  metal  parts.  It  traveled  so  that 
the  men  could  dodge  it,  but  it  was  throwing  off 
slugs  that  you  could  neither  see  nor  dodge,  and 
it  was  a  poor  place  to  be ! 

And  the  one  whizz  bang  was  not  enough  to  suit 
Fritz.  It  was  followed  immediately  by  a  lot  more, 
that  came  popping  in  and  making  themselves  as 
unpleasant  as  you  could  imagine.  I  watched  the 
men  about  me,  and  they  seemed  to  be  uncon- 
cerned, and  to  be  thinking  much  more  of  me  and 
my  singing  than  of  the  whizz  bangs.  So,  no  mat- 
ter how  I  felt,  there  was  nothing  for  me  to  do  but 
to  keep  on  with  my  song.  I  decided  that  I  must 
really  be  safe  enough,  no  matter  how  I  felt.  But 


268  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

I  had  certain  misgivings  on  the  subject.  Still,  I 
managed  to  go  on  with  my  song,  and  I  think  I 
was  calm  enough  to  look  at — though,  if  I  was,  my 
appearance  wholly  belied  my  true  inward  feelings. 

I  struggled  through  to  the  end  of  the  chorus — 
and  I  think  I  sang  pretty  badly,  although  I  don't 
know.  But  I  was  pretty  sure  the  end  of  the  world 
had  come  for  me,  and  that  these  laddies  were  tak- 
ing things  as  calmly  as  they  were  simply  because 
they  were  used  to  it,  and  it  was  all  in  the  day's 
work  for  them.  The  Germans  were  fairly  sluicing 
that  trench  by  now.  The  whizz  bangs  were  pop- 
ping over  us  like  giant  fire-crackers,  going  off  one 
and  two  and  three  at  a  time.  And  the  trench  was 
full  of  flying  slugs  and  chunks  of  dirt,  striking 
against  our  faces  and  hurtling  all  about  us. 

There  I  was.  I  had  a  good  "house."  I  wanted 
to  please  my  audience.  Was  it  no  a  trying  situa- 
tion! I  thought  Fritz  might  have  had  manners 
enough  to  wait  until  I  had  finished  my  concert,  at 
least!  But  the  Hun  has  no  manners,  as  all  the 
world  knows. 

Along  that  embankment  we  had  climbed  to 
reach  the  trenches,  and  not  very  far  from  the  bit 
of  trench  in  which  I  was  singing,  there  was  a  rail- 
road bridge  of  some  strategic  importance.  And 
now  a  shell  hit  that  bridge — not  a  whizz  bang,  but 
a  real,  big  shell.  It  exploded  with  a  hideous 
screech,  as  if  the  bridge  were  some  human  thing 
being  struck,  and  screaming  out  its  agony.  The 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  269 

soldiers  looked  at  me,  and  I  saw  some  of  them 
winking.  They  seemed  to  be  mighty  interested  in 
the  way  I  was  taking  all  this.  I  looked  back  at 
them,  and  then  at  a  Highland  colonel  who  was 
listening  to  my  singing  as  quietly  and  as  carefully 
as  if  he  had  been  at  a  stall  in  Covent  Garden  dur- 
ing the  opera  season.  He  caught  my  glance. 

"I  think  they're  coming  it  a  bit  thick,  Lauder, 
old  chap,"  he  remarked,  quietly. 

"I  quite  agree  with  you,  colonel,"  I  said.  I 
tried  to  ape  his  voice  and  manner,  but  I  wasn't 
so  quiet  as  he. 

Now  there  came  a  ripping,  tearing  sound  in  the 
air,  and  a  veritable  cloudburst  of  the  damnable 
whizz  bangs  broke  over  us.  That  settled  matters. 
There  were  no  orders,  but  everyone  turned,  just 
as  if  it  were  a  meeting,  and  a  motion  to  adjourn 
had  been  put  and  carried  unanimously.  We  all 
ran  for  the  safety  holes  or  dugouts  in  the  side  of 
the  embankment.  And  I  can  tell  ye  that  the  Kev- 
erend  Harry  Lauder,  M.P.,  Tour  were  no  the  last 
ones  to  reach  those  shelters !  No,  we  were  by  no 
means  the  last! 

I  ha'  no  doot  that  I  might  have  improved  upon 
the  shelter  that  I  found,  had  I  had  time  to  pick 
and  choose.  But  any  shelter  was  good  just  then, 
and  I  was  glad  of  mine,  and  of  a  chance  to  catch 
my  breath.  Afterward,  I  saw  a  picture  by  Cap- 
tain Bairnsfather  that  made  me  laugh  a  good 
deal,  because  it  represented  so  exactly  the  way  I 


270  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

felt.  He  had  made  a  drawing  of  two  Tommies 
in  a  wee  bit  of  a  hole  in  a  field  that  was  being 
swept  by  shells  and  missiles  of  every  sort.  One 
was  grousing  to  his  mate,  and  the  other  said  to 
him: 

"If  you  know  a  better  'ole  go  'ide  in  it!" 

I  said  we  all  turned  and  ran  for  cover.  But 
there  was  one  braw  laddie  who  did  nothing  of  the 
sort.  He  would  not  run — such  tricks  were  not  for 
him! 

He  was  a  big  Hie 'land  laddie,  and  he  wore 
naught  but  his  kilt  and  his  semmet — his  under- 
shirt. He  had  on  his  steel  helmet,  and  it  shaded 
a  face  that  had  not  been  shaved  or  washed  for 
days.  His  great,  brawny  arms  were  folded  across 
his  chest,  and  he  was  smoking  his  pipe.  And  he 
stood  there  as  quiet  and  unconcerned  as  if  he 
had  been  a  village  smith  gazing  down  a  quiet 
country  road.  I  watched  him,  and  he  saw  me,  and 
grinned  at  me.  And  now  and  then  he  glanced  at 
me,  quizzically. 

"It's  all  right,  Harry,"  he  said,  several  times. 
"Dinna  fash  yoursel',  man.  I'll  tell  ye  in  time 
for  ye  to  duck  if  I  see  one  coming  your  way ! ' ' 

We  crouched  in  our  holes  until  there  came  a 
brief  lull  in  the  bombardment.  Probably  the 
Germans  thought  they  had  killed  us  all  and 
cleared  the  trench,  or  maybe  it  had  been  only  that 
they  hadn't  liked  my  singing,  and  had  been  satis- 
fied when  they  had  stopped  it.  So  we  came  out, 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  271 

but  the  firing  was  not  over  at  all,  as  we  found  out 
at  once.  So  we  went  down  a  bit  deeper,  into  con- 
crete dugouts. 

This  trench  had  been  a  part  of  the  intricate 
German  defensive  system  far  back  of  their  old 
front  line,  and  they  had  had  the  pains  of  building 
and  hollowing  out  the  fine  dugout  into  which  I 
now  went  for  shelter.  Here  they  had  lived,  deep 
under  the  earth,  like  animals — and  with  animals, 
too.  For  when  I  reached  the  bottom  a  dog  came 
to  meet  me,  sticking  out  his  red  tongue  to  lick  my 
hand,  and  wagging  his  tail  as  friendly  as  you 
please. 

He  was  a  German  dog — one  of  the  prisoners  of 
war  taken  in  the  great  attack.  His  old  masters 
hadn't  bothered  to  call  him  and  take  him  with 
them  when  the  Highlanders  came  along,  and  so 
he  had  stayed  behind  as  part  of  the  spoils  of  the 
attack. 

That  wasn't  much  of  a  dog,  as  dogs  go.  He 
was  a  mongrel-looking  creature,  but  he  couldn't 
have  been  friendlier.  The  Highlanders  had 
adopted  him  and  called  him  Fritz,  and  they  were 
very  fond  of  him,  and  he  of  them.  He  had  no 
thought  of  war.  He  behaved  just  as  dogs  do  at 
hame. 

But  above  us  the  horrid  din  was  still  going  on, 
and  bits  of  shells  were  flying  everywhere — any- 
one of  them  enough  to  kill  you,  if  it  struck  you  in 
the  right  spot.  I  was  glad,  I  can  tell  ye,  that  I 


272  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

was  so  snug  and  safe  beneath  the  ground,  and  I 
had  no  mind  at  all  to  go  out  until  the  bombard- 
ment was  well  over.  I  knew  now  what  it  was 
really  to  be  under  fire.  The  casual  sort  of  shell- 
ing I  had  had  to  fear  at  Vimy  Ridge  was  nothing 
to  this.  This  was  the  real  thing. 

And  then  I  thought  that  what  I  was  experienc- 
ing for  a  few  minutes  was  the  daily  portion  of 
these  laddies  who  were  all  aboot  me — not  for  a 
few  minutes,  but  for  days  and  weeks  and  months 
at  a  time.  And  it  came  home  to  me  again,  and 
stronger  than  ever,  what  they  were  doing  for  us 
folks  at  hame,  and  how  we  ought  to  be  feeling  for 
them. 

The  heavy  firing  went  on  for  three-quarters  of 
an  hour,  at  least.  We  could  hear  the  chugging  of 
the  big  guns,  and  the  sorrowful  swishing  of  the 
shells,  as  if  they  were  mournful  because  they  were 
not  wreaking  more  destruction  than  they  were. 
It  all  moved  me  greatly,  but  I  could  see  that  the 
soldiers  thought  nothing  of  it,  and  were  quite  un- 
perturbed by  the  fearful  demonstration  that  was 
going  on  above.  They  smoked  and  chatted,  and 
my  own  nerves  grew  calmer. 

Finally  there  seemed  to  come  a  real  lull  in  the 
row  above,  and  I  turned  to  the  general. 

"Isn't  it  near  time  for  me  to  be  finishing  my 
concert,  sir?"  I  asked  him. 

"Very  good,"  he  said,  jumping  up.  "Just  as 
you  say,  Lauder." 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  273 

So  back  we  went  to  where  I  had  begun  to  sing. 
My  audience  reassembled,  and  I  struck  up  "The 
Laddies  Who  Fought  and  Won"  again.  It 
seemed,  somehow,  the  most  appropriate  song  I 
could  have  picked  to  sing  in  that  spot !  I  finished, 
this  time,  but  there  was  some  discord  in  the  clos- 
ing bars,  for  the  Germans  were  still  at  their  shell- 
ing, sporadically. 

So  I  finished,  and  I  said  good-by  to  the  men  who 
were  to  stay  in  the  trench,  guarding  that  bit  of 
Britain's  far  flung  battleline.  And  then  the  Eev- 
erend  Harry  Lauder,  M.P.,  Tour  was  ready  to  go 
back — not  to  safety,  at  once,  but  to  a  region  far 
less  infested  by  the  Hun  than  this  one  where  we 
had  been  such  warmly  received  visitors ! 


CHAPTER  XXII 

1WAS  sorry  to  be  leaving  the  Highland  laddies 
in  that  trench.  Aye!  But  for  the  trench 
itself  I  had  nae  regrets — nae,  none  whatever ! 
I  know  no  spot  on  the  surface  of  this  earth,  of  all 
that  I  have  visited,  and  I  have  been  in  many 
climes,  that  struck  me  as  less  salubrious  than  yon 
bit  o '  trench.  There  were  too  many  other  visitors 
there  that  day,  along  with  the  Eeverend  Harry 
Lauder,  M.P.,  Tour.  They  were  braw  laddies, 
yon,  but  no  what  you  might  call  over-particular 
about  the  company  they  kept!  I'd  thank  them,  if 
they'd  be  havin'  me  to  veesit  them  again,  to  let 
me  come  by  my  ain! 

Getting  away  was  not  the  safest  business  in  the 
world,  either,  although  it  was  better  than  staying 
in  yon  trench.  We  had  to  make  our  way  back  to 
the  railway  embankment,  and  along  it  for  a  space, 
and  the  embankment  was  being  heavily  shelled. 
It  was  really  a  trench  line  itself,  full  of  dugouts, 
and  as  we  made  our  way  along  heads  popped  in 
all  directions,  topped  by  steel  helmets.  I  was 
eager  to  be  on  the  other  side  of  yon  embankment, 
although  I  knew  well  enough  that  there  was  no 
sanctuary  on  either  side  of  it,  nor  for  a  long  space 
behind  it. 

274 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  275 

'— -—^—^——— -^-——^-^—^—-— ——^_— __—————_———— —^^^^— _——____ 

That  was  what  they  called  the  Frenchy  railway 
cutting,  and  it  overlooked  the  ruined  village  of 
Athies.  And  not  until  after  I  had  crossed  it  was 
I  breathing  properly.  I  began,  then,  to  feel  more 
like  myself,  and  my  heart  and  all  my  functions 
began  to  be  more  normal. 

All  this  region  we  had  to  cross  now  was  still 
under  fire,  but  the  fire  was  nothing  to  what  it  had 
been.  The  evidences  of  the  terrific  bombardments 
there  had  been  were  plainly  to  be  seen.  Every 
scrap  of  exposed  ground  had  been  nicked  by 
shells ;  the  holes  were  as  close  together  as  those  in 
a  honeycomb.  I  could  not  see  how  any  living 
thing  had  come  through  that  hell  of  fire,  but  many 
men  had.  Now  the  embankment  fairly  buzzed 
with  activity.  The  dugouts  were  everywhere,  and 
the  way  the  helmeted  heads  popped  out  as  we 
passed,  inquiringly,  made  me  think  of  the  prairie 
dog  towns  I  had  seen  in  Canada  and  the  western 
United  States. 

The  river  Scarpe  flowed  close  by.  It  was  a  nar- 
row, sluggish  stream,  and  it  did  not  look  to  me 
worthy  of  its  famous  name.  But  often,  that 
spring,  its  slow-moving  waters  had  been  flecked 
by  a  bloody  froth,  and  the  bodies  of  brave  men 
had  been  hidden  by  them,  and  washed  clean  of  the 
trench  mud.  Now,  uninviting  as  its  aspect  was, 
and  sinister  as  were  the  memories  it  must  have 
evoked  in  other  hearts  beside  my  own,  it  was 
water.  And  on  so  hot  a  day  water  was  a  precious 


276  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

thing  to  men  who  had  been  working  as  the  laddies 
hereabout  had  worked  and  labored. 

So  either  bank  was  dotted  with  naked  bodies, 
and  the  stream  itself  showed  head  after  head,  and 
flashing  white  arms  as  men  went  swimming.  Some 
were  scrubbing  themselves,  taking  a  Briton's  keen 
delight  in  a  bath,  no  matter  what  the  circum- 
stances in  which  he  gets  it;  others  were  washing 
their  clothes,  slapping  and  pounding  the  soaked 
garments  in  a  way  to  have  wrung  the  hearts  of 
their  wives,  had  they  seen  them  at  it.  The  British 
soldier,  in  the  field,  does  many  things  for  himself 
that  folks  at  name  never  think  of!  But  many  of 
the  men  were  just  lying  on  the  bank,  sprawled  out 
and  sunning  themselves  like  alligators,  basking  in 
the  warm  sunshine  and  soaking  up  rest  and  good 
cheer. 

It  looked  like  a  good  place  for  a  concert,  and  so 
I  quickly  gathered  an  audience  of  about  a  thou- 
sand men  from  the  dugouts  in  the  embankment 
and  obeyed  their  injunctions  to  "Go  it,  Harry! 
Gie  us  a  song,  do  now ! ' ' 

As  I  finished  my  first  song  my  audience  ap- 
plauded me  and  cheered  me  most  heartily,  and  the 
laddies  along  the  banks  of  the  Scarpe  heard  them, 
and  came  running  up  to  see  what  was  afoot.  There 
were  no  ladies  thereabout,  and  they  did  not  stand 
on  a  small  matter  like  getting  dressed !  Not  they ! 
They  came  running  just  as  they  were,  and  Adam, 
garbed  in  his  fig  leaf,  was  fully  clad  compared  to 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  277 

most  of  them.  It  was  the  barest  gallery  I  ever 
saw,  and  the  noisiest,  too,  and  the  most  truly 
appreciative. 

High  up  above  us  airplanes  were  circling,  so 
high  that  we  could  not  tell  from  which  side  they 
came,  except  when  we  saw  some  of  them  being 
shelled,  and  so  knew  that  they  belonged  to  Fritz. 
They  looked  like  black  pinheads  against  the  blue 
cushion  of  the  sky,  and  no  doubt  that  they  were 
vastly  puzzled  as  to  the  reason  of  this  gathering 
of  naked  men.  What  new  tricks  were  the  damned 
English  up  to  now?  So  I  have  no  doubt,  they 
were  wondering!  It  was  the  business  of  their 
observers,  of  course,  to  spot  just  such  gatherings 
as  ours,  although  I  did  not  think  of  that  just  then 
— except  to  think  that  they  might  drop  a  bomb  or 
two,  maybe. 

But  scouting  airplanes,  such  as  those  were,  do 
not  go  in  for  bomb  dropping.  There  are  three 
sorts  of  airplanes.  First  come  the  scouting  planes 
— fairly  fast,  good  climbers,  able  to  stay  in  the  air 
a  long  time.  Their  business  is  just  to  spy  out  the 
lay  of  the  land  over  the  enemy's  trenches — not 
to  fight  or  drop  bombs.  Then  come  the  swift, 
powerful  bombing  planes,  which  make  raids,  flying 
long  distances  to  do  so.  The  Huns  use  such 
planes  to  bomb  unprotected  towns  and  kill  women 
and  babies;  ours  go  in  for  bombing  ammunition 
dumps  and  trains  and  railway  stations  and  other 
places  of  military  importance,  although,  by  now, 


278  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

they  may  be  indulging  in  reprisals  for  some  of 
Fritz's  murderous  raids,  as  so  many  folk  at  hame 
in  Britain  have  prayed  they  would. 

Both  scouting  and  bombing  planes  are  protected 
by  the  fastest  flyers  of  all — the  battle  planes,  as 
they  are  called.  These  fight  other  planes  in  the 
air,  and  it  is  the  men  who  steer  them  and  fight 
their  guns  who  perform  the  heroic  exploits  that 
you  may  read  of  every  day.  But  much  of  the 
great  work  in  the  air  is  done  by  the  scouting 
planes,  which  take  desperate  chances,  and  find  it 
hard  to  fight  back  when  they  are  attacked.  And 
it  was  scouts  who  were  above  us  now — and,  doubt- 
less, sending  word  back  by  wireless  of  a  new  and 
mysterious  concentration  of  British  forces  along 
the  Scarpe,  which  it  might  be  a  good  thing  for 
the  Hun  artillery  to  strafe  a  bit ! 

So,  before  very  long,  a  rude  interruption  came 
to  my  songs,  in  the  way  of  shells  dropped  unpleas- 
antly close.  The  men  so  far  above  us  had  given 
their  guns  the  range,  and  so,  although  the  gun- 
ners could  not  see  us,  they  could  make  their  pres- 
ence felt. 

I  have  never  been  booed  or  hissed  by  an  audi- 
ence, since  I  have  been  on  the  stage.  I  under- 
stand that  it  is  a  terrible  and  a  disconcerting  ex- 
perience, and  one  calculated  to  play  havoc  with 
the  stoutest  of  nerves.  It  is  an  experience  I  am 
by  no  means  anxious  to  have,  I  can  tell  you !  But 
I  doubt  if  it  could  seem  worse  to  me  than  the  inter- 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  279 

ruption  of  a  shell.  The  Germans,  that  day,  showed 
no  ear  for  music,  and  no  appreciation  of  art — my 
art,  at  least ! 

And  so  it  seemed  well  to  me  to  cut  my  pro- 
gramme, to  a  certain  extent,  at  least,  and  bid  fare- 
well to  my  audience,  dressed  and  undressed.  It 
was  a  performance  at  which  it  did  not  seem  to  me 
a  good  idea  to  take  any  curtain  calls.  I  did  not 
miss  them,  nor  feel  slighted  because  they  were 
absent.  I  was  too  glad  to  get  away  with  a  whole 
skin! 

The  shelling  became  very  furious  now.  Plainly 
the  Germans  meant  to  take  no  chances.  They 
couldn't  guess  what  the  gathering  their  airplanes 
had  observed  might  portend,  but,  if  they  could, 
they  meant  to  defeat  its  object,  whatever  that 
might  be.  Well,  they  did  not  succeed,  but  they 
probably  had  the  satisfaction  of  thinking  that  they 
had,  and  I,  for  one,  do  not  begrudge  them  that. 
They  forced  the  Reverend  Harry  Lauder,  M.P., 
Tour  to  make  a  pretty  wide  detour,  away  from  the 
river,  to  get  back  to  the  main  road.  But  they 
fired  a  power  of  shells  to  do  so ! 

When  we  finally  reached  the  road  I  heard  a 
mad  sputtering  behind.  I  looked  around  in  alarm, 
because  it  sounded,  for  all  the  world,  like  one  of 
those  infernal  whizz  bangs,  chasing  me.  But  it 
was  not.  The  noise  came  from  a  motor  cycle,  and 
its  rider  dashed  up  to  me  and  dropped  one  foot 
to  the  ground. 


280  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

"Here's  a  letter  for  you,  Harry,"  he  said. 

It  was  a  package  that  he  handed  me.  I  was  sur- 
prised— I  was  not  expecting  to  have  a  post  deliv- 
ered to  me  on  the  battlefield  of  Arras !  It  turned 
out  that  the  package  contained  a  couple  of  ugly- 
looking  bits  of  shell,  and  a  letter  from  my  friends 
the  Highlanders  on  the  other  side  of  the  railway 
embankment.  They  wrote  to  thank  me  for  sing- 
ing for  them,  and  said  they  hoped  I  was  none  the 
worse  for  the  bombardment  I  had  undergone. 

"These  bits  of  metal  are  from  the  shell  that  was 
closest  to  you  when  it  burst,"  their  spokesman 
wrote.  "They  nearly  got  you,  and  we  thought 
you'd  like  to  have  them  to  keep  for  souvenirs." 

It  seemed  to  me  that  that  was  a  singularly  calm 
and  phlegmatic  letter!  My  nerves  were  a  good 
deal  overwrought,  as  I  can  see  now. 

Now  we  made  our  way  slowly  back  to  division 
headquarters,  and  there  I  found  that  preparations 
had  been  made  for  very  much  the  most  ambitious 
and  pretentious  concert  that  I  had  yet  had  a 
chance  to  give  in  France.  There  was  a  very  large 
audience,  and  a  stage  or  platform  had  been  set 
up,  with  plenty  of  room  on  it  for  Johnson  and  his 
piano.  It  had  been  built  in  a  great  field,  and  all 
around  me,  when  I  mounted  it,  I  could  see  kilted 
soldiers — almost  as  far  as  my  eye  could  reach. 
There  were  many  thousands  of  them  there — in- 
deed, all  of  the  Highland  Brigade  that  was  not 
actually  on  duty  at  the  moment  was  present,  and 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  281 

a  good  many  other  men  beside,  for  good  measure. 

Here  was  a  sight  to  make  a  Scots  heart  leap 
with  pride!  Here,  before  me,  was  the  flower  of 
Scottish  manhood.  These  regiments  had  been 
through  a  series  of  battles,  not  so  long  since,  that 
had  sadly  thinned  their  ranks.  Many  a  Scottish 
grave  had  been  filled  that  spring;  many  a  Scot- 
tish heart  at  hame  had  been  broken  by  sad  news 
from  this  spot.  But  there  they  were  now,  before 
me — their  ranks  filled  up  again,  splendid  as  they 
stretched  out,  eager  to  welcome  me  and  cheer  me. 
There  were  tears  in  my  eyes  as  I  looked  around 
at  them. 

Massed  before  me  were  all  the  best  men  Scot- 
land had  had  to  offer !  All  these  men  had  breathed 
deep  of  the  hellish  air  of  war.  All  had  marched 
shoulder  to  shoulder  and  skirt  to  skirt  with  death. 
All  were  of  my  country  and  my  people.  My  heart 
was  big  within  me  with  pride  of  them,  and  that  I 
was  of  their  race,  as  I  stood  up  to  sing  for 
them. 

Johnson  was  waiting  for  me  to  be  ready.  Little 
"Tinkle  Tom,"  as  we  called  the  wee  piano,  was 
not  very  large,  but  there  were  times  when  he  had 
to  be  left  behind.  I  think  he  was  glad  to  have  us 
back  again,  and  to  be  doing  his  part,  instead  of 
leaving  me  to  sing  alone,  without  his  stout  help. 

Many  distinguished  officers  were  in  that  great 
assemblage.  They  all  turned  out  to  hear  me,  as 
well  as  the  men,  and  among  them  I  saw  many 


282  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

familiar  faces  and  old  friends  from  hame.  But 
there  were  many  faces,  too,  alas,  that  I  did  not 
see.  And  when  I  inquired  for  them  later  I  learned 
that  many  of  them  I  had  seen  for  the  last  time. 
Oh,  the  sad  news  I  learned,  day  after  day,  oot 
there  in  France !  Friend  after  friend  of  whom  I 
made  inquiry  was  known,  to  be  sure.  They  could 
tell  me  where,  and  when,  and  how,  they  had  been 
killed. 

Up  above  us,  as  I  began  to  sing,  our  airplanes 
were  circling.  No  Boche  planes  were  in  sight  now, 
I  had  been  told,  but  there  were  many  of  ours.  And 
sometimes  one  came  swooping  down,  its  occupants 
curious,  no  doubt,  as  to  what  might  be  going  on, 
and  the  hum  of  its  huge  propeller  would  make  me 
falter  a  bit  in  my  song.  And  once  or  twice  one 
flew  so  low  and  so  close  that  I  was  almost  afraid 
it  would  strike  me,  and  I  would  dodge  in  what  I 
think  was  mock  alarm,  much  to  the  amusement  of 
the  soldiers. 

I  had  given  them  two  songs  when  a  big  man 
arose,  far  back  in  the  crowd.  He  was  a  long  way 
from  me,  but  his  great  voice  carried  to  me  easily, 
so  that  I  could  hear  every  word  he  said. 

1 '  Harry, ' '  he  shouted, ' '  sing  us  '  The  Wee  Hoose 
Amang  the  Heather'  and  we'll  a'  join  in  the 
chorus ! ' ' 

For  a  moment  I  could  only  stare  out  at  them. 
Between  that  sea  of  faces,  upraised  to  mine,  and 
my  eyes,  there  came  another  face — the  smiling, 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  283 

bonnie  face  of  my  boy  John,  that  I  should  never 
see  again  with  mortal  eyes.  That  had  been  one 
of  his  favorite  songs  for  many  years.  I  hesitated. 
It  was  as  if  a  gentle  hand  had  plucked  at  my  very 
heart  strings,  and  played  upon  them.  Memory — 
memories  of  my  boy,  swept  over  me  in  a  flood.  I 
felt  a  choking  in  my  throat,  and  the  tears  welled 
into  my  eyes. 

But  then  I  began  to  sing,  making  a  signal  to 
Johnson  to  let  me  sing  alone.  And  when  I  came 
to  the  chorus,  true  to  the  big  Highlander's  prom- 
ise, they  all  did  join  in  the  chorus !  And  what  a 
chorus  that  was !  Thousands  of  men  were  singing. 

" There's  a  wee  hoose  amang  the  heather, 
There's  a  wee  hoose  o'er  the  sea. 
There's  a  lassie  in  that  wee  hoose 
"Waiting  patiently  for  me. 
She's  the  picture  of  perfection — • 
I  would  na  tell  a  lee 
If  ye  saw  her  ye  would  love  her 
Just  the  same  as  me!" 

My  voice  was  very  shaky  when  I  came  to  the 
end  of  that  chorus,  but  the  great  wave  of  sound 
from  the  kilted  laddies  rolled  out,  true  and  full, 
unshaken,  unbroken.  They  carried  the  air  as 
steadily  as  a  ship  is  carried  upon  a  rolling  sea. 

I  could  sing  no  more  for  them,  and  then,  as  I 
made  my  way,  unsteadily  enough,  from  the  plat- 
form, music  struck  up  that  was  the  sweetest  I 


284  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

could  have  heard.  Some  pipers  had  come  together, 
from  twa  or  three  regiments,  unknown  to  me,  and 
now,  very  softly,  their  pipes  began  to  skirl.  They 
played  the  tune  that  I  love  best,  "The  Drunken 
Piper."  I  could  scarcely  see  to  pick  my  way,  for 
the  tears  that  blinded  me,  but  in  my  ears,  as  I 
passed  away  from  them,  there  came,  gently  wail- 
ing on  the  pipes,  the  plaintive  plea — 
"Will  ye  no  come  back  again? " 


CHAPTER 

NOW  it  was  time  to  take  to  the  motor  cars 
again,  and  I  was  glad  of  the  thought  that 
we  would  have  a  bracing  ride.  I  needed 
something  of  the  sort,  I  thought.  My  emotions 
had  been  deeply  stirred,  in  many  ways,  that  day. 
I  felt  tired  and  quite  exhausted.  This  was  by  all 
odds  the  most  strenuous  day  the  Eeverend  Harry 
Lauder,  M.P.,  Tour  had  put  in  yet  in  France.  So 
I  welcomed  the  idea  of  sitting  back  comfortably 
in  the  car  and  feeling  the  cool  wind  against  my 
cheeks. 

First,  however,  the  entertainers  were  to  be 
entertained.  They  took  us,  the  officers  of  the  divi- 
sional staff,  to  a  hut,  where  we  were  offered  our 
choice  of  tea  or  a  wee  hauf  yin.  There  was  good 
Scots  whisky  there,  but  it  was  the  tea  I  wanted. 
It  was  very  hot  in  the  sun,  and  I  had  done  a  deal 
of  clambering  about.  So  I  was  glad,  after  all,  to 
stay  in  the  shade  a  while  and  rest  my  limbs. 

Getting  out  through  Arras  turned  out  to  be  a 
ticklish  business.  The  Germans  were  verra  waste- 
ful o '  their  shells  that  day,  considering  how  much 
siller  they  cost !  They  were  pounding  away,  and 
more  shells,  by  a  good  many,  were  falling  in  Arras 
than  had  been  the  case  when  we  arrived  at  noon. 

285 


286  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

So  I  got  a  chance  to  see  how  the  rain  that  had  been 
wrought  had  been  accomplished. 

Arras  is  a  wonderful  sight,  noble  and  impres- 
sive even  in  its  destruction.  But  it  was  a  sight 
that  depressed  me.  It  had  angered  me,  at  first, 
but  now  I  began  to  think,  at  each  ruined  house 
that  I  saw:  " Suppose  this  were  at  hame  in  Scot- 
land!" And  when  such  thoughts  came  to  me  I 
thanked  God  for  the  brave  lads  I  had  seen  that 
day  who  stood,  out  here,  holding  the  line,  and  so 
formed  a  bulwark  between  Scotland  and  such 
black  ruin  as  this. 

We  were  to  start  for  Tramecourt  now,  but  on 
the  way  we  were  to  make  a  couple  of  stops.  Our 
way  was  to  take  us  through  St.  Pol  and  Hesdin, 
and,  going  so,  we  came  to  the  town  of  Le  Quesnoy. 
Here  some  of  the  llth  Argyle  and  Sutherland 
Highlanders  were  stationed.  My  heart  leaped  at 
the  sight  of  them.  That  had  been  my  boy's  regi- 
ment, although  he  had  belonged  to  a  different  bat- 
talion, and  it  was  with  the  best  will  in  the  world 
that  I  called  a  halt  and  gave  them  a  concert. 

I  gave  two  more  concerts,  both  brief  ones,  on 
the  rest  of  the  journey,  and  so  it  was  quite  dark 
when  we  approached  the  chateau  at  Tramecourt. 
As  we  came  up  I  became  aware  of  a  great  stir  and 
movement  that  was  quite  out  of  the  ordinary 
routine  there.  In  the  grounds  I  could  see  tiny 
lights  moving  about,  like  fireflies — lights  that 
came,  I  thought,  from  electric  torches. 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  287 

''Something  extraordinary  must  be  going  on 
here,"  I  remarked  to  Captain  Godfrey.  "I  won- 
der if  General  Haig  has  arrived,  by  any 
chance  ? ' ' 

"We'll  soon  know  what  it's  all  about,"  he  said, 
philosophically.  But  I  expect  he  knew  already. 

Before  the  chateau  there  was  a  brilliant  spot 
of  light,  standing  out  vividly  against  the  sur- 
rounding darkness.  I  could  not  account  for  that 
brilliantly  lighted  spot  then.  But  we  came  into  it 
as  the  car  stopped ;  it  was  a  sort  of  oasis  of  light 
in  an  inky  desert  of  surrounding  gloom.  And  as 
we  came  full  into  it  and  I  stood  up  to  descend  from 
the  car,  stretching  my  tired,  stiff  legs,  the  silence 
and  the  darkness  were  split  by  three  tremendous 
cheers. 

It  wasn't  General  Haig  who  was  arriving!  It 
was  Harry  Lauder ! 

11  What's  the  matter  here?"  I  called,  as  loudly 
as  I  could. 

''Been  waitin'  for  ye  a  couple  of  'ours,  'Arry," 
called  a  loud  cockney  voice  in  answer.  "Go  it 
now!  Get  it  off  your  chest!"  Then  came  ex- 
planations. It  seemed  that  a  lot  of  soldiers,  about 
four  hundred  strong,  who  were  working  on  a  big 
road  job  about  ten  miles  from  Tramecourt,  had 
heard  of  my  being  there,  and  had  decided  to  come 
over  in  a  body  and  beg  for  a  concert.  They  got 
to  the  chateau  early,  and  were  told  it  might  be 
eleven  o'clock  before  I  got  back.  But  they  didn't 


288  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

care — they  said  they'd  wait  all  night,  if  they  had 
to,  to  get  a  chance  to  hear  me.  And  they  made 
some  use  of  the  time  they  had  to  wait. 

They  took  three  big  acetylene  headlights  from 
motor  cars,  and  connected  them  up.  There  was 
a  little  porch  at  the  entrance  of  the  chateau,  with 
a  short  flight  of  steps  leading  up  to  it,  and  then 
we  decided  that  that  would  make  an  excellent 
makeshift  theater.  Since  it  would  be  dark  they 
decided  they  must  have  lights,  so  that  they  could 
see  me — just  as  in  a  regular  theater  at  hame! 
That  was  where  the  headlights  they  borrowed 
from  motor  cars  came  in.  They  put  one  on  each 
side  of  the  porch  and  one  off  in  front,  so  that  all 
the  light  was  centered  right  on  the  porch  itself, 
and  it  was  bathed  in  as  strong  a  glare  as  ever  I 
sang  in  on  the  stage.  It  was  almost  blinding,  in- 
deed, as  I  found  when  I  turned  to  face  them  and 
to  sing  for  them.  Needless  to  say,  late  though  it 
was  and  tired  as  I  was,  I  never  thought  of  refus- 
ing to  give  them  the  concert  they  wanted ! 

I  should  have  liked  to  eat  my  dinner  first,  but  I 
couldn't  think  of  suggesting  it.  These  boys  had 
done  ,a  long,  hard  day's  work.  Then  they  had 
marched  ten  miles,  and,  on  top  of  all  that,  had 
waited  two  hours  for  me  and  fixed  up  a  stage  and 
a  lighting  system.  They  were  quite  as  tired  as  I, 
I  decided — and  they  had  done  a  lot  more.  And 
so  I  told  the  faithful  Johnson  to  bring  wee  Tinkle 
Tom  along,  and  get  him  up  to  the  little  stage, 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  289 

and  I  faced  my  audience  in  the  midst  of  a  storm 
of  the  ghostliest  applause  I  ever  hope  to  hear! 

I  could  hear  them,  do  you  ken,  but  I  could  no 
see  a  face  before  me!  In  the  theater,  bright 
though  the  footlights  are,  and  greatly  as  they  dim 
what  lies  beyond  them,  you  can  still  see  the  white 
faces  of  your  audience.  At  least,  you  do  see  some- 
thing— your  eyes  help  you  to  know  the  audience 
is  there,  and,  gradually,  you  can  see  perfectly,  and 
pick  out  a  face,  maybe,  and  sing  to  some  one  per- 
son in  the  audience,  that  you  may  be  sure  of  your 
effects. 

It  was  utter,  Stygian  darkness  that  lay  beyond 
the  pool  of  blinding  light  in  which  I  stood.  Gradu- 
ally I  did  make  out  a  little  of  what  lay  beyond, 
very  close  to  me.  I  could  see  dim  outlines  of  hu- 
man bodies  moving  around.  And  now  I  was  sure 
there  were  fireflies  about.  But  then  they  stayed 
so  still  that  I  realized,  suddenly,  with  a  smile,  just 
what  they  were — the  glowing  ends  of  cigarettes, 
of  course ! 

There  were  many  tall  poplar  trees  around  the 
chateau.  I  knew  where  to  look  for  them,  but  that 
night  I  could  scarcely  see  them.  I  tried  to  find 
them,  for  it  was  a  strange,  weird  sensation  to  be 
there  as  I  was,  and  I  wanted  all  the  help  fixed 
objects  could  give  me.  I  managed  to  pick  out  their 
feathery  lines  in  the  black  distance — the  darkness 
made  them  seem  more  remote  than  they  were, 
really.  Their  branches,  when  I  found  them, 


290  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

waved  like  spirit  arms,  and  I  could  hear  the  wind 
whispering  and  sighing  among  the  topmost 
branches. 

Now  and  then  what  we  call  in  Scotland  a  "batty 
bird"  skimmed  past  my  face,  attracted,  I  suppose, 
by  the  bright  light.  I  suppose  that  bats  that  have 
not  been  disturbed  before  for  generations  have 
been  aroused  by  the  blast  of  war  through  all  that 
region  and  have  come  out  of  dark  cavernous 
hiding-places,  as  those  that  night  must  have  done, 
to  see  what  it  is  all  about,  the  tumult  and  the 
shouting ! 

They  were  verra  disconcerting  those  bats! 
They  bothered  me  almost  as  much  as  the  whizz 
bangs  had  done,  earlier  in  the  day !  They  swished 
suddenly  out  of  the  darkness  against  my  face,  and 
I  would  start  back,  and  hear  a  ripple  of  laughter 
run  through  that  unseen  audience  of  mine.  Aye, 
it  was  verra  funny  for  them,  but  I  did  not  like 
that  part  of  it  a  bit !  No  man  likes  to  have  a  bat 
touch  his  skin.  And  I  had  to  duck  quickly  to 
evade  those  winged  cousins  of  the  mouse — and 
then  hear  a  soft  guffaw  arising  as  I  did  it. 

I  have  appeared,  sometimes,  in  theaters  in 
which  it  was  pretty  difficult  to  find  the  audience. 
And  such  audiences  have  been  nearly  impossible 
to  trace,  later,  in  the  box-office  reports.  But  that 
is  the  first  time  in  my  life,  and,  up  to  now,  the 
last,  that  I  ever  sang  to  a  totally  invisible  audi- 
dience !  I  did  not  know  then  how  many  men  there 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  291 

were — there  might  have  been  forty,  or  four  hun- 
dred, or  four  thousand.  And,  save  for  the  titters 
that  greeted  my  encounters  with  the  bats,  they 
were  amazingly  quiet  as  they  waited  for  me  to 
sing. 

It  was  just  about  ten  minutes  before  eleven 
when  I  began  to  sing,  and  the  concert  wasn't  over 
until  after  midnight.  I  was  distinctly  nervous  as 
I  began  the  verse  of  my  first  song.  It  was  a  great 
relief  when  there  was  a  round  of  applause;  that 
helped  to  place  my  audience  and  give  me  its  meas- 
ure, at  once. 

But  I  was  almost  as  disconcerted  a  bit  later  as 
I  had  been  by  the  first  incursion  of  the  bats.  I 
came  to  the  chorus,  and  suddenly,  out  of  the  dark- 
ness, there  came  a  perfect  gale  of  sound.  It  was 
the  men  taking  up  the  chorus,  thundering  it  out. 
They  took  the  song  clean  away  from  me — I  could 
only  gasp  and  listen.  The  roar  from  that  unseen 
chorus  almost  took  my  feet  from  under  me,  so 
amazing  was  it,  and  so  unexpected,  somehow,  used 
as  I  was  to  having  soldiers  join  in  a  chorus  with 
me,  and  disappointed  as  I  should  have  been  had 
they  ever  failed  to  do  so. 

But  after  that  first  song,  when  I  knew  what  to 
expect,  I  soon  grew  used  to  the  strange  surround- 
ings. The  weirdness  and  the  mystery  wore  off, 
and  I  began  to  enjoy  myself  tremendously.  The 
conditions  were  simply  ideal;  indeed,  they  were 
perfect,  for  the  sentimental  songs  that  soldiers 


292  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

always  like  best.  Imagine  how  "Roamin'  in  the 
Gloamin'  "  went  that  nicht! 

I  had  meant  to  sing  three  or  four  songs.  But 
instead  I  sang  nearly  every  song  I  knew.  It  was 
one  of  the  longest  programmes  I  gave  during  the 
whole  tour,  and  I  enjoyed  the  concert,  myself,  bet- 
ter than  any  I  had  yet  given. 

My  audience  was  growing  all  the  time,  although 
I  did  not  know  that.  The  singing  brought  up 
crowds  from  the  French  village,  who  gathered  in 
the  outskirts  of  the  throng  to  listen — and,  I  make 
no  doubt,  to  pass  amazed  comments  on  these  queer 
English ! 

At  last  I  was  too  tired  to  go  on.  And  so  I  bade 
the  lads  good-nicht,  and  they  gave  me  a  great 
cheer,  and  faded  away  into  the  blackness.  And  I 
went  inside,  rubbing  my  eyes,  and  wondering  if 
it  was  no  all  a  dream ! 

"It  wasn't  Sir  Douglas  Haig  who  arrived,  was 
it,  Harry?"  Godfrey  said,  slyly. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE  next  morning  I  was  tired,  as  you  may  be- 
lieve. I  ached  in  every  limb  when  I  went  to 
my  room  that  night,  but  a  hot  bath  and  a 
good  sleep  did  wonders  for  me.  No  bombardment 
could  have  kept  me  awake  that  nicht !  I  would  no 
ha'  cared  had  the  Hun  begun  shelling  Tramecourt 
itself,  so  long  as  he  did  not  shell  me  clear  out  of 
my  bed. 

Still,  in  the  morning,  though  I  had  not  had  so 
much  sleep  as  I  would  have  liked,  I  was  ready  to 
go  when  we  got  the  word.  We  made  about  as 
early  a  start  as  usual — breakfast  soon  after  day- 
light, and  then  out  the  motor  cars  and  to  wee 
Tinkle  Tom.  Our  destination  that  day,  our  first, 
at  least,  was  Albert — a  town  as  badly  smashed 
and  battered  as  Arras  or  Ypres.  These  towns 
were  long  thinly  held  by  the  British — that  is,  they 
were  just  within  our  lines,  and  the  Hun  could  rake 
them  with  his  fire  at  his  own  evil  will. 

It  did  him  no  good  to  batter  them  to  pieces  as 
he  did.  He  wasted  shells  upon  them  that  must 
have  been  precious  to  him.  His  treatment  of  them 
was  but  a  part  of  his  wicked,  wanton  spirit  of 
destructiveness.  He  could  not  see  a  place  stand- 
ing that  he  did  not  want  to  destroy,  I  think.  It 

293 


294  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

was  not  war  he  made,  as  the  world  had  known 
war ;  it  was  a  savage  raid  against  every  sign  and 
evidence  of  civilization,  and  comfort  and  hap- 
piness. But  always,  as  I  think  I  have  said  before, 
one  thing  eluded  him.  It  was  the  soul  of  that 
which  he  destroyed.  That  was  beyond  his  reach, 
and  sore  it  must  have  grieved  him  to  come  to  know 
it — for  come  to  know  it  he  has,  in  France,  and  in 
Belgium,  too. 

We  passed  through  a  wee  town  called  Doullens 
on  our  way  from  Tramecourt  to  Albert.  And 
there,  that  morn,  I  saw  an  old  French  nun;  an 
aged  woman,  a  woman  old  beyond  all  belief  or 
reckoning.  I  think  she  is  still  there,  where  I  saw 
her  that  day.  Indeed,  it  has  seemed  to  me,  often, 
as  I  have  thought  upon  her,  that  she  will  always 
be  there,  gliding  silently  through  the  deserted 
streets  of  that  wee  toon,  on  through  all  the  ages 
that  are  to  come,  and  always  a  cowled,  veiled 
figure  of  reproach  and  hatred  for  the  German 
race. 

There  is  some  life  in  that  wee  place  now.  There 
are  no  more  Germans,  and  no  more  shells  come 
there.  The  battle  line  has  been  carried  on  to  the 
East  by  the  British;  here  they  have  redeemed  a 
bit  of  France  from  the  German  yoke.  And  so  we 
could  stop  there,  in  the  heat  of  the  morning,  for 
a  bit  of  refreshment  at  a  cafe  that  was  once,  I 
suppose,  quite  a  place  in  that  sma'  toon.  It  does 
but  little  business  now;  passing  soldiers  bring  it 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  295 

some  trade,  but  nothing  like  what  it  used  to  have. 
For  this  is  not  a  town  much  frequented  by  troops 
— or  was  not,  just  at  that  time. 

There  was  some  trouble,  too,  with  one  of  the 
cars,  so  we  went  for  a  short  walk  through  the 
town.  It  was  then  that  we  met  that  old  French 
nun.  Her  face  and  her  hands  were  withered,  and 
deeply  graven  with  the  lines  of  the  years  that  had 
bowed  her  head.  Her  back  was  bent,  and  she 
walked  slowly  and  with  difficulty.  But  in  her  eyes 
was  a  soft,  young  light  that  I  have  often  seen  in 
the  eyes  of  priests  and  nuns,  and  that  their  com- 
forting religion  gives  them.  But  as  we  talked  I 
spoke  of  the  Germans. 

Gone  from  her  eyes  was  all  their  softness.  They 
flashed  a  bitter  and  contemptuous  hatred. 

"The  Germans!"  she  said.  She  spat  upon  the 
ground,  scornfully,  and  with  a  gesture  of  infinite 
loathing.  And  every  time  she  uttered  that  hated 
word  she  spat  again.  It  was  a  ceremony  she 
used ;  she  felt,  I  know,  that  her  mouth  was  defiled 
by  that  word,  and  she  wished  to  cleanse  it.  It 
was  no  affectation,  as,  with  some  folk,  you  might 
have  thought  it.  It  was  not  a  studied  act.  She 
did  it,  I  do  believe,  unconsciously.  And  it  was  a 
gesture  marvelously  expressive.  It  spoke  more 
eloquently  of  her  feelings  than  many  words  could 
have  done. 

She  had  seen  the  Germans!  Aye!  She  had 
seen  them  come,  in  1914,  in  the  first  days  of  the 


296  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

war,  rolling  past  in  great,  gray  waves,  for  days 
and  days,  as  if  the  flood  would  never  cease  to  roll. 
She  had  seen  them  passing,  with  their  guns,  in 
those  first  proud  days  of  the  war,  when  they  had 
reckoned  themselves  invincible,  and  been  so  sure 
of  victory.  She  knew  what  cruelties,  what  indigni- 
ties, they  had  put  upon  the  helpless  people  the 
war  had  swept  into  their  clutch.  She  knew  the 
defilements  of  which  they  had  been  guilty. 

Nor  was  that  the  first  time  she  had  seen  Ger- 
mans. They  had  come  before  she  was  so  old, 
though  even  then  she  had  not  been  a  young  girl- 
in  the  war  of  1870,  when  Europe  left  brave  France 
to  her  fate,  because  the  German  spirit  and  the 
German  plan  were  not  appreciated  or  understood. 
Thank  God  the  world  had  learned  its  lesson  by 
1914,  when  the  Hun  challenged  it  again,  so  that 
the  challenge  was  met  and  taken  up,  and  France 
was  not  left  alone  to  bear  the  brunt  of  German 
greed  and  German  hate. 

She  hated  the  Germans,  that  old  French  nun. 
She  was  religious ;  she  knew  the  teachings  of  her 
church.  She  knew  that  God  says  we  must  love 
our  enemies.  But  He  could  not  expect  us  to  love 
His  enemies. 

Albert,  when  we  came  to  it,  we  found  a  ruin 
indeed.  The  German  guns  had  beaten  upon  it 
until  it  was  like  a  rubbish  heap  in  the  backyard 
of  hell.  Their  malice  had  wrought  a  ruin  here 
almost  worse  than  that  at  Arras.  Only  one  build- 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  297 

ing  had  survived  although  it  was  crumbling  to 
ruin.  That  was  a  church,  and,  as  we  approached 
it,  we  could  see,  from  the  great  way  off,  a  great 
gilded  figure  of  the  Holy  Virgin,  holding  in  her 
arms  the  infant  Christ. 

The  figure  leaned  at  such  an  angle,  high  up 
against  the  tottering  wall  of  the  church,  that  it 
seemed  that  it  must  fall  at  the  next  moment,  even 
as  we  stared  at  it.  But — it  does  not  fall.  Every 
breath  of  wind  that  comes  sets  it  to  swaying, 
gently.  When  the  wind  rises  to  a  storm  it  must 
rock  perilously  indeed.  But  still  it  stays  there, 
hanging  like  an  inspiration  straight  from  Heaven 
to  all  who  see  it.  The  peasants  who  gaze  upon  it 
each  day  in  reverent  awe  whisper  to  you,  if  you 
ask  them,  that  when  it  falls  at  last  the  war  will 
be  over,  and  France  will  be  victorious. 

That  is  rank  superstition,  you  say!  Aye,  it 
may  be !  But  in  the  region  of  the  front  everyone 
you  meet  has  become  superstitious,  if  that  is  the 
word  you  choose.  That  is  especially  true  of  the 
soldiers.  Every  man  at  the  front,  it  seemed  to  me, 
was  a  fatalist.  What  is  to  be  will  be,  they  say.  It 
is  certain  that  this  feeling  has  helped  to  make 
them  indifferent  to  danger,  almost,  indeed,  con- 
temptuous of  it.  And  in  France,  I  was  told,  al- 
most everywhere  there  were  shrines  in  which 
figures  of  Christ  or  of  His  Mother  had  survived 
the  most  furious  shelling.  All  the  world  knows, 
too,  how,  at  Kheims,  where  the  great  Cathedral 


298  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

has  been  shattered  in  the  wickedest  and  most 
wanton  of  all  the  crimes  of  that  sort  that  the  Ger- 
mans have  to  their  account,  the  statue  of  Jeanne 
d'Arc,  who  saved  France  long  ago,  stands  un- 
touched. 

How  is  a  man  to  account  for  such  things  as  that? 
Is  he  to  put  them  down  to  chance,  to  luck,  to  a 
blind  fate?  I,  for  one,  cannot  do  so,  nor  will  I 
try  to  learn  to  do  it. 

Fate,  to  be  sure,  is  a  strange  thing,  as  my 
friends  the  soldiers  know  so  well.  But  there  is 
a  difference  between  fate,  or  chance,  and  the  sort 
of  force  that  preserves  statues  like  those  I  have 
named.  A  man  never  knows  his  luck;  he  does 
well  not  to  brood  upon  it.  I  remember  the  case 
of  a  chap  I  knew,  who  was  out  for  nearly  three 
years,  taking  part  in  great  battles  from  Mons  to 
Arras.  He  was  scratched  once  or  twice,  but  was 
never  even  really  wounded  badly  enough  to  go  to 
hospital.  He  went  to  London,  at  last,  on  leave, 
and  within  an  hour  of  the  time  when  he  stepped 
from  his  train  at  Charing  Cross  he  was  struck 
by  a  'bus  and  killed.  And  there  was  the  strange 
ease  of  my  friend,  Tamson,  the  baker,  of  which 
I  told  you  earlier.  No — a  man  never  knows  his 
fate! 

So  it  seemed  to  me,  as  we  drove  toward  Arras, 
and  watched  that  mysterious  figure,  that  God  Him- 
self had  chosen  to  leave  it  there,  as  a  sign  and  a 
warning  and  a  promise  all  at  once.  There  was  no 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  299 

sign  of  life,  at  first,  when  we  came  into  the  town. 
Silence  brooded  over  the  ruins.  We  stopped  to 
have  a  look  around  in  that  scene  of  desolation, 
and  as  the  motors  throbbed  beneath  the  hoods  it 
seemed  to  me  the  noise  they  made  was  close  to 
being  blasphemous.  We  were  right  under  that 
hanging  figure  of  the  Virgin  and  of  Christ,  and 
to  have  left  the  silence  unbroken  would  have  been 
more  seemly. 

But  it  was  not  long  before  the  silence  of  the 
town  was  broken  by  another  sound.  It  was 
marching  men  we  heard,  but  they  were  scuffling 
with  their  feet  as  they  came;  they  had  not  the 
rhythmic  tread  of  most  of  the  British  troops  we 
had  encountered.  Nor  were  these  men,  when  they 
swung  into  sight,  coming  around  a  pile  of  ruins, 
just  like  any  British  troops  we  had  seen.  I  rec- 
ognized them  as  once  as  Australians — Kangaroos, 
as  their  mates  in  other  divisions  called  them — by 
the  way  their  campaign  hats  were  looped  up  at 
one  side.  These  were  the  first  Australian  troops 
I  had  seen  since  I  had  sailed  from  Sydney,  in  the 
early  days  of  the  war,  nearly  three  years  before. 
Three  years !  To  think  of  it — and  of  what  those 
years  had  seen! 

"Here's  a  rare  chance  to  give  a  concert!"  I 
said,  and  held  up  my  hand  to  the  officer  in 
command. 

"Halt!"  he  cried,  and  then:  "Stand  at  ease!" 

I  was  about  to  tell  him  why  I  had  stopped  them, 


300  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

and  make  myself  known  to  them  when  I  saw  a 
grin  rippling  its  way  over  all  those  bronzed  faces 
— a  grin  of  recognition.  And  I  saw  that  the  officer 
knew  me,  too,  even  before  a  loud  voice  cried  out : 

"Good  old  Harry  Lauder!" 

That  was  a  good  Scots  voice — even  though  its 
owner  wore  the  Australian  uniform. 

"Would  the  boys  like  to  hear  a  concert?"  I 
asked  the  officer. 

"That  they  would!  By  all  means!"  he  said. 
"Glad  of  the  chance!  And  so'm  I!  I've  heard 
you  just  once  before — in  Sydney,  away  back  in 
the  summer  of  1914." 

Then  the  big  fellow  who  had  called  my  name 
spoke  up  again. 

"Sing  us  'Calligan,'  "  he  begged.  "Sing  us 
'Calligan,'  Harry!  I  heard  you  sing  it  twenty- 
three  years  agone,  in  Motherwell  Toon  Hall!" 

"Calligan!"  The  request  for  that  song  took 
me  back  indeed,  through  all  the  years  that  I  have 
been  before  the  public.  It  must  have  been  at  least 
twenty-three  years  since  he  had  heard  me  sing 
that  song — all  of  twenty- three  years.  ' '  Calligan ' ' 
had  been  one  of  the  very  earliest  of  my  successes 
on  the  stage.  I  had  not  thought  of  the  song,  much 
less  sung  it,  for  years  and  years.  In  fact,  though 
I  racked  my  brains,  I  could  not  remember  the 
words.  And  so,  much  as  I  should  have  liked  to 
do  so,  I  could  not  sing  it  for  him.  But  if  he  was 
disappointed,  he  took  it  in  good  part,  and  he 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  301 

seemed  to  like  some  of  the  newer  songs  I  had  to 
sing  for  them  as  well  as  he  could  ever  have  liked 
old"Calligan." 

I  sang  for  these  Kangaroos  a  song  I  had  not 
sung  before  in  France,  because  it  seemed  to  be  an 
especially  auspicious  time  to  try  it.  I  wrote  it 
while  I  was  in  Australia,  with  a  view,  particu- 
larly, to  pleasing  Australian  audiences,  and  so  re- 
paying them,  in  some  measure,  for  the  kindly  way 
in  which  they  treated  me  while  I  was  there.  I 
call  it  " Australia  Is  the  Land  for  Me,"  and  this 
is  the  way  it  goes : 

There 's  a  land  I  'd  like  to  tell  you  all  about 

It 's  a  land  in  the  far  South  Sea. 
It's  a  land  where  the  sun  shines  nearly  every  day 

It's  the  land  for  you  and  me. 
It's  the  land  for  the  man  with  the  big  strong  arm 

It's  the  land  for  big  hearts,  too. 
It's  a  land  we'll  fight  for,  everything  that's  right  for 

Australia  is  the  real  true  blue! 

Refrain : 

It's  the  land  where  the  sun  shines  nearly  every  day 

Where  the  skies  are  ever  blue. 
Where  the  folks  are  as  happy  as  the  day  is  long 

And  there's  lots  of  work  to  do. 
Where  the  soft  winds  blow  and  the  gum  trees  grow 

As  far  as  the  eye  can  see, 
Where  the  magpie  chaffs  and  the  cuckoo-burra  laughs 

Australia  is  the  land  for  me ! 


302  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

Those  Kangaroos  took  to  that  song  as  a  duck 
takes  to  water!  They  raised  the  chorus  with  me 
in  a  swelling  roar  as  soon  as  they  had  heard  it 
once,  to  learn  it,  and  their  voices  roared  through 
the  ruins  like  vocal  shrapnel.  You  could  hear 
them  whoop  "Australia  Is  the  Land  for  Me!"  a 
mile  away.  And  if  anything  could  have  brought 
down  that  tottering  statue  above  us  it  would  have 
been  the  way  they  sang.  They  put  body  and  soul, 
as  well  as  voice,  into  that  final  patriotic  declara- 
tion of  the  song. 

We  had  thought — I  speak  for  Hogge  and  Adam 
and  myself,  and  not  for  Godfrey,  who  did  not  have 
to  think  and  guess,  but  know — we  had  thought, 
when  we  rolled  into  Albert,  that  it  was  a  city  of 
the  dead,  utterly  deserted  and  forlorn.  But  now, 
as  I  went  on  singing,  we  found  that  that  idea  had 
been  all  wrong.  For  as  the  Australians  whooped 
up  their  choruses  other  soldiers  popped  into  sight. 
They  came  pouring  from  all  directions. 

I  have  seen  few  sights  more  amazing.  They 
came  from  cracks  and  crevices,  as  it  seemed ;  from 
under  tumbled  heaps  of  ruins,  and  dropping  down 
from  shells  of  houses  where  there  were  certainly 
no  stairs.  As  I  live,  before  I  had  finished  my 
audience  had  been  swollen  to  a  great  one  of  two 
thousand  men!  When  they  were  all  roaring  out 
in  a  chorus  you  could  scarce  hear  Johnson's  wee 
piano  at  all — it  sounded  only  like  a  feeble  tinkle 
when  there  was  a  part  for  it  alone. 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  303 

I  began  shaking  hands,  when  I  had  finished  sing- 
ing. That  was  a  verrainjudeecious  thing  for  me 
to  attempt  there!  I  had  not  reckoned  with  the 
strength  of  the  grip  of  those  laddies  from  the 
underside  of  the  world.  But  I  had  been  there, 
and  I  should  have  known. 

Soon  came  the  order  to  the  Kangaroos:  "Fall 
in!" 

At  once  the  habit  of  stern  discipline  prevailed. 
They  swung  off  again,  and  the  last  we  saw  of  them 
they  were  just  brown  men,  disappearing  along  a 
brown  road,  bound  for  the  trenches. 

Swiftly  the  mole-like  dwellers  in  Albert  melted 
away,  until  only  a  few  officers  were  left  beside  the 
members  of  the  Reverend  Harry  Lauder,  M.P., 
Tour.  And  I  grew  grave  and  distraught  myself. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

ONE  of  the  officers  at  Albert  was  looking  at 
me  in  a  curiously  intent  fashion.  I  noticed 
that.  And  soon  he  came  over  to  me. 

"Where  do  you  go  next,  Harry?"  he  asked  me. 
His  voice  was  keenly  sympathetic,  and  his  eyes 
and  his  manner  were  very  grave. 

"To  a  place  called  Ovilliers,"  I  said. 

"So  I  thought,"  he  said.  He  put  out  his  hand, 
and  I  gripped  it,  hard.  "I  know,  Harry.  I  know 
exactly  where  you  are  going,  and  I  will  send  a 
man  with  you  to  act  as  your  guide,  who  knows  the 
spot  you  want  to  reach." 

I  couldn't  answer  him.  I  was  too  deeply  moved. 
For  Ovilliers  is  the  spot  where  my  son,  Captain 
John  Lauder,  lies  in  his  soldier's  grave.  That 
grave  had  been,  of  course,  from  the  very  first,  the 
final,  the  ultimate  objective  of  my  journey.  And 
that  morning,  as  we  set  out  from  Tramecourt, 
Captain  Godfrey  had  told  me,  with  grave  sym- 
pathy, that  at  last  we  were  coming  to  the  spot  that 
had  been  so  constantly  in  my  thoughts  ever  since 
we  had  sailed  from  Folkestone. 

And  so  a  private  soldier  joined  our  party  as 
guide,  and  we  took  to  the  road  again.  The 
Bapaume  road  it  was — a  famous  highway,  bitterly 

304 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  305 

contested,  savagely  fought  for.  It  was  one  of  the 
strategic  roads  of  that  whole  region,  and  the  Hun 
had  made  a  desperate  fight  to  keep  control  of  it. 
But  he  had  failed — as  he  has  failed,  and  is  failing 
still,  in  all  his  major  efforts  in  France. 

There  was  no  talking  in  our  car,  which,  this 
morning,  was  the  second  in  the  line.  I  certainly 
was  not  disposed  to  chat,  and  I  suppose  that  sym- 
pathy for  my  feelings,  and  my  glumness,  stilled 
the  tongues  of  my  companions.  And,  at  any  rate, 
we  had  not  traveled  far  when  the  car  ahead  of  us 
stopped,  and  the  soldier  from  Albert  stepped  into 
the  road  and  waited  for  me.  I  got  out  when  our 
car  stopped,  and  joined  him. 

"I  will  show  you  the  place  now,  Mr.  Lauder," 
he  said,  quietly.  So  we  left  the  cars  standing  in 
the  road,  and  set  out  across  a  field  that,  like  all 
the  fields  in  that  vicinity,  had  been  ripped  and 
torn  by  shell-fire.  All  about  us,  as  we  crossed  that 
tragic  field,  there  were  little  brown  mounds,  each 
with  a  white  wooden  cross  upon  it.  June  was  out 
that  day  in  full  bloom.  All  over  the  valley, 
thickly  sown  with  those  white  crosses,  wild  flowers 
in  rare  profusion,  and  thickly  matted,  luxuriant" 
grasses,  and  all  the  little  shrubs  that  God  Himself 
looks  after  were  growing  bravely  in  the  sunlight, 
as  though  they  were  trying  to  hide  the  work  of 
the  Hun. 

It  was  a  mournful  journey,  but,  in  some  strange 
way,  the  peaceful  beauty  of  the  day  brought  com- 


306  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

fort  to  me.  And  my  own  grief  was  altered  by  the 
vision  of  the  grief  that  had  come  to  so  many 
others.  Those  crosses,  stretching  away  as  far  as 
my  eye  could  reach,  attested  to  the  fact  that  it  was 
not  I  alone  who  had  suffered  and  lost  and  laid  a 
sacrifice  upon  the  altar  of  my  country.  And,  in 
the  presence  of  so  many  evidences  of  grief  and 
desolation  a  private  grief  sank  into  its  true  pro- 
portions. It  was  no  less  keen,  the  agony  of  the 
thought  of  my  boy  was  as  sharp  as  ever.  But  I 
knew  that  he  was  only  one,  and  that  I  was  only 
one  father.  And  there  were  so  many  like  him — 
and  so  many  like  me,  God  help  us  all !  Well,  He 
did  help  me,  as  I  have  told,  and  I  hope  and  pray 
that  He  has  helped  many  another.  I  believe  He 
has ;  indeed,  I  know  it. 

Hogge  and  Dr.  Adam,  my  two  good  friends, 
walked  with  me  on  that  sad  pilgrimage.  I  was 
acutely  conscious  of  their  sympathy ;  it  was  sweet 
and  precious  to  have  it.  But  I  do  not  think  we 
exchanged  a  word  as  we  crossed  that  field.  There 
was  no  need  of  words.  I  knew,  without  speech 
from  them,  how  they  felt,  and  they  knew  that  I 
knew.  So  we  came,  when  we  were,  perhaps,  half 
a  mile  from  the  Bapaume  road,  to  a  slight 
eminence,  a  tiny  hill  that  rose  from  the  field.  A 
little  military  cemetery  crowned  it.  Here  the 
graves  were  set  in  ordered  rows,  and  there  was 
a  fence  set  around  them,  to  keep  them  apart,  and 
to  mark  that  spot  as  holy  ground,  until  the  end 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  307 

of  time.  Five  hundred  British  boys  lie  sleeping 
in  that  small  acre  of  silence,  and  among  them  is 
my  own  laddie.  There  the  fondest  hopes  of  my 
life,  the  hopes  that  sustained  and  cheered  me 
through  many  years,  lie  buried. 

No  one  spoke.  But  the  soldier  pointed,  silently 
and  eloquently,  to  one  brown  mound  in  a  row  of 
brown  mounds  that  looked  alike,  each  like  the 
other.  Then  he  drew  away.  And  Hogge  and 
Adam  stopped,  and  stood  together,  quiet  and 
grave.  And  so  I  went  alone  to  my  boy's  grave, 
and  flung  myself  down  upon  the  warm,  friendly 
earth.  My  memories  of  that  moment  are  not  very 
clear,  but  I  think  that -for  a  few  minutes  I  was 
utterly  spent,  that  my  collapse  was  complete. 

He  was  such  a  good  boy ! 

I  hope  you  will  not  think,  those  of  you,  my 
friends,  who  may  read  what  I  am  writing  here, 
that  I  am  exalting  my  lad  above  all  the  other 
Britons  who  died  for  King  and  country — or,  and 
aye,  above  the  brave  laddies  of  other  races  who 
died  to  stop  the  Hun.  But  he  was  such  a  good 
boy! 

As  I  lay  there  on  that  brown  mound,  under  the 
June  sun  that  day,  all  that  he  had  been,  and  all 
that  he  had  meant  to  me  and  to  his  mother  came 
rushing  back  afresh  to  my  memory,  opening  anew 
my  wounds  of  grief.  I  thought  of  him  as  a  baby, 
and  as  a  wee  laddie  beginning  to  run  around  and 
talk  to  us.  I  thought  of  him  in  every  phase  and 


308  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

bit  of  his  life,  and  of  the  friends  that  we  had  been, 
he  and  I!  Such  chums  we  were,  always! 

And  as  I  lay  there,  as  I  look  back  upon  it  now, 
I  can  think  of  but  the  one  desire  that  ruled  and 
moved  me.  I  wanted  to  reach  my  arms  down  into 
that  dark  grave,  and  clasp  my  boy  tightly  to  my 
breast,  and  kiss  him.  And  I  wanted  to  thank  him 
for  what  he  had  done  for  his  country,  and  his 
mother,  and  for  me. 

Again  there  came  to  me,  as  I  lay  there,  the  same 
gracious  solace  that  God  had  given  me  after  I 
heard  of  his  glorious  death.  And  I  knew  that  this 
dark  grave,  so  sad  and  lonely  and  forlorn,  was  but 
the  temporary  bivouac  of  my  boy.  I  knew  that  it 
was  no  more  than  a  trench  of  refuge  against  the 
storm  of  battle,  in  which  he  was  resting  until  that 
hour  shall  sound  when  we  shall  all  be  reunited  be- 
yond the  shadowy  borderland  of  Death. 

How  long  did  I  lie  there  I  I  do  not  know.  And 
how  I  found  the  strength  at  last  to  drag  myself 
to  my  feet  and  away  from  that  spot,  the  dearest 
and  the  saddest  spot  on  earth  to  me,  God  only 
knows.  It  was  an  hour  of  very  great  anguish  for 
me;  an  hour  of  an  anguish  different,  but  only  less 
keen,  than  that  which  I  had  known  when  they  had 
told  me  first  that  I  should  never  see  my  laddie  in 
the  flesh  again.  But  as  I  took  up  the  melancholy 
journey  across  that  field,  with  its  brown  mounds 
and  its  white  crosses  stretching  so  far  away,  they 
seemed  to  bring  me  a  sort  of  tragic  consolation. 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  309 

I  thought  of  all  the  broken-hearted  ones  at  home, 
in  Britain.  How  many  were  waiting,  as  I  had 
waited,  until  they,  too, — they,  too, — might  come  to 
France,  and  cast  themselves  down,  as  I  had  done, 
upon  some  brown  mound,  sacred  in  their  thoughts? 
How  many  were  praying  for  the  day  to  come  when 
they  might  gaze  upon  a  white  cross,  as  I  had  done, 
and  from  the  brown  mound  out  of  which  it  rose 
gather  a  few  crumbs  of  that  brown  earth,  to  be 
deposited  in  a  sacred  corner  of  a  sacred  place 
yonder  in  Britain? 

While  I  was  in  America,  on  my  last  tour,  a 
woman  wrote  to  me  from  a  town  in  the  state  of 
Maine.  She  was  a  stranger  to  me  when  she  sat 
down  to  write  that  letter,  but  I  count  her  now,  al- 
though I  have  never  seen  her,  among  my  very 
dearest  friends. 

"I  have  a  friend  in  France,"  she  wrote.  "He 
is  there  with  our  American  army,  and  we  had  a 
letter  from  him  the  other  day.  I  think  you  would 
like  to  hear  what  he  wrote  to  us. 

"  'I  was  walking  in  the  gloaming  here  in  France 
the  other  evening,'  he  wrote.  'You  know,  I  have 
always  been  very  fond  of  that  old  song  of  Harry 
Lauder's,  'Roamin'  in  the  GloaminV 

"  'Well,  I  was  roamin'  in  the  gloamin'  myself, 
and  as  I  went  I  hummed  that  very  song,  under  my 
breath.  And  I  came,  in  my  walk  to  a  little  ceme- 
tery, on  a  tiny  hill.  There  were  many  mounds 
there  and  many  small  white  crosses.  About  one 


310  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

of  them  a  Union  Jack  was  wrapped  so  tightly  that 
I  could  not  read  the  inscription  upon  it.  And 
something  led  me  to  unfurl  that  weather-worn 
flag,  so  that  I  could  read.  And  what  do  you  think? 
It  was  the  grave  of  Harry  Lauder's  son,  Captain 
John  Lauder,  of  the  Argyle  and  Sutherland  High- 
landers, and  his  little  family  crest  was  upon  the 
cross. 

"  'I  stood  there,  looking  down  at  that  grave, 
and  I  said  a  little  prayer,  all  by  myself.  And  then 
I  rewound  the  Union  Jack  about  the  cross.  I 
went  over  to  some  ruins  nearby,  and  there  I  found 
a  red  rose  growing.  I  do  believe  it  was  the  last 
rose  of  summer.  And  I  took  it  up,  very  carefully, 
roots  and  all,  and  carried  it  over  to  Captain 
Lauder's  grave,  and  planted  it  there.'  " 

What  a  world  of  comfort  those  words  brought 
me! 

It  was  about  eight  o'clock  one  morning  that 
Captain  Lauder  was  killed,  between  Courcellete 
and  Poizieres,  on  the  Ancre,  in  the  region  that  is 
known  as  the  Somme  battlefield.  It  was  soon 
after  breakfast,  and  John  was  going  about,  seeing 
to  his  men.  His  company  was  to  be  relieved  that 
day,  and  to  go  back  from  the  trenches  to  rest  bil- 
lets, behind  the  lines.  We  had  sent  our  laddie  a 
braw  lot  of  Christmas  packages  not  long  before, 
but  he  had  had  them  kept  at  the  rest  billet,  so  that 
he  might  have  the  pleasure  of  opening  them  when 
he  was  out  of  the  trenches,  and  had  a  little  leisure, 


A  MINSTREL  IN  PRANCE  311 

even  though  it  made  his  Christinas  presents  a  wee 
bit  late. 

There  had  been  a  little  mist  upon  the  ground, 
as,  at  that  damp  and  chilly  season  of  the  year, 
there  nearly  always  was  along  the  river  Ancre. 
At  that  time,  on  that  morning,  it  was  just  begin- 
ning to  rise  as  the  sun  grew  strong  enough  to 
banish  it.  I  think  John  trusted  too  much  to  the 
mist,  perhaps.  He  stepped  for  just  a  moment  into 
the  open;  for  just  a  moment  he  exposed  himself, 
as  he  had  to  do,  no  doubt,  to  do  his  duty.  And 
a  German  sniper,  watching  for  just  such 
chances,  caught  a  glimpse  of  him.  His  rifle 
spoke;  its  bullet  pierced  John's  brave  and 
gentle  heart. 

Tate,  John's  body-servant,  a  man  from  our  own 
town,  was  the  first  to  reach  him.  Tate  was  never 
far  from  John's  side,  and  he  was  heart-broken 
when  he  reached  him  that  morning  and  found  that 
there  was  nothing  he  could  do  for  him. 

Many  of  the  soldiers  who  served  with  John  and 
under  him  have  written  to  me,  and  come  to  me. 
And  all  of  them  have  told  me  the  same  thing: 
that  there  was  not  a  man  in  his  company  who  did 
not  feel  his  death  as  a  personal  loss  and  bereave- 
ment. And  his  superior  officers  have  told  me  the 
same  thing.  In  so  far  as  such  reports  could  com- 
fort us  his  mother  and  I  have  taken  solace  in  them. 
All  that  we  have  heard  of  John's  life  in  the 
trenches,  and  of  his  death,  was  such  a  report  as 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 


we  or  any  parents  should  want  to  have  of  their 
boy. 

John  never  lost  his  rare  good  nature.  There 
were  times  when  things  were  going  very  badly 
indeed,  but  at  such  times  he  could  always  be 
counted  upon  to  raise  a  laugh  and  uplift  the 
spirits  of  his  men.  He  knew  them  all;  he  knew 
them  well.  Nearly  all  of  them  came  from  his 
home  region  near  the  Clyde,  and  so  they  were  his 
neighbors  and  his  friends. 

I  have  told  you  earlier  that  John  was  a  good 
musician.  He  played  the  piano  rarely  well,  for  an 
amateur,  and  he  had  a  grand  singing  voice.  And 
one  of  his  fellow-officers  told  me  that,  after  the 
fight  at  Beaumont-Hamul,  one  of  the  phases  of  the 
great  Battle  of  the  Somme,  John's  company  found 
itself,  toward  evening,  near  the  ruins  of  an  old 
chateau.  After  that  fight,  by  the  way,  dire  news, 
sad  news,  came  to  our  village  of  the  men  of  the 
Argyle  and  Sutherland  regiment,  and  there  were 
many  stricken  homes  that  mourned  brave  lads  who 
would  never  come  home  again. 

John's  men  were  near  to  exhaustion  that  night. 
They  had  done  terrible  work  that  day,  and  their 
losses  had  been  heavy.  Now  that  there  was  an 
interlude  they  lay  about,  tired  and  bruised  and 
battered.  Many  had  been  killed;  many  had  been 
so  badly  wounded  that  they  lay  somewhere  behind, 
or  had  been  picked  up  already  by  the  Eed  Cross 
jnen  who  followed  them  Across  the  field  of  the  at- 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  313 

tack.  But  there  were  many  more  who  had  been 
slightly  hurt,  and  whose  wounds  began  to  pain 
them  grievously  now.  The  spirit  of  the  men  was 
dashed. 

John's  friend  and  fellow-officer  told  me  of  the 
scene. 

"There  we  were,  sir,"  he  said.  "We  were 
pretty  well  done  in,  I  can  tell  you.  And  then 
Lauder  came  along.  I  suppose  he  was  just  as 
tired  and  worn  out  as  the  rest  of  us — God  knows 
he  had  as  much  reason  to  be,  and  more !  But  he 
was  as  cocky  as  a  little  bantam.  And  he  was  smil- 
ing. He  looked  about. 

"  'Here — this  won't  do!'  he  said.  'We've  got 
to  get  these  lads  feeling  better!'  He  was  talking 
more  to  himself  than  to  anyone  else,  I  think.  And 
he  went  exploring  around.  He  got  into  what  was 
left  of  that  chateau — and  I  can  tell  you  it  wasn't 
much !  The  Germans  had  been  using  it  as  a  point 
d'appui — a  sort  of  rallying-place,  sir — and  our 
guns  had  smashed  it  up  pretty  thoroughly.  I've 
no  doubt  the  Fritzies  had  taken  a  hack  at  it,  too, 
when  they  found  they  couldn't  hold  it  any  longer 
— they  usually  did. 

"But,  by  a  sort  of  miracle,  there  was  a  piano 
inside  that  had  come  through  all  the  trouble.  The 
building  and  all  the  rest  of  the  furniture  had  been 
knocked  to  bits,  but  the  piano  was  all  right,  al- 
though, as  I  say,  I  don't  know  how  that  had  hap- 
pened. Lauder  spied  it,  and  went  clambering  over 


314.  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

all  the  debris  and  wreckage  to  reach  it.  He  tried 
the  keys,  and  found  that  the  action  was  all  right. 
So  he  began  picking  out  a  tune,  and  the  rest  of  us 
began  to  sit  up  a  bit.  And  pretty  soon  he  lifted 
his  voice  in  a  rollicking  tune — one  of  your  songs 
it  was,  sir — and  in  no  time  the  men  were  all  sit- 
ting up  to  listen  to  him.  Then  they  joined  in  the 
chorus — and  pretty  soon  you'd  never  have  known 
they'd  been  tired  or  worn  out!  If  there 'd  been  a 
chance  they'd  have  gone  at  Fritz  and  done  the 
day's  work  all  over  again!" 

After  John  was  killed  his  brother  officers  sent 
us  all  his  personal  belongings.  We  have  his  field- 
glasses,  with  the  mud  of  the  trenches  dried  upon 
them.  We  have  a  little  gold  locket  that  he  always 
wore  around  his  neck.  His  mother's  picture  is 
in  it,  and  that  of  the  lassie  he  was  to  have  married 
had  he  come  home,  after  New  Year's.  And  we 
have  his  rings,  and  his  boots,  and  his  watch,  and 
all  the  other  small  possessions  that  were  a  part  of 
his  daily  life  out  there  in  France. 

Many  soldiers  and  officers  of  the  Argyle  and 
Sutherlanders  pass  the  hoose  at  Dunoon  on  the 
Clyde.  None  ever  passes  the  hoose,  though,  with- 
out dropping  in,  for  a  bite  and  sup  if  he  has  time 
to  stop,  and  to  tell  us  stories  of  our  beloved  boy. 

No,  I  would  no  have  you  think  that  I  would  exalt 
my  boy  above  all  the  others  who  have  lived  and 
died  in  France  in  the  way  of  duty.  But  he  was 
such  a  good  boy!  We  have  heard  so  many  tales 


'A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  315 

like  those  I  have  told  you,  to  make  us  proud  of 
him,  and  glad  that  he  bore  his  part  as  a  man 
should. 

He  will  stay  there,  in  that  small  grave  on  that 
tiny  hill.  I  shall  not  bring  his  body  back  to  rest 
in  Scotland,  even  if  the  time  comes  when  I  might 
do  so.  It  is  a  soldier's  grave,  and  an  honorable 
place  for  him  to  be,  and  I  feel  it  is  there  that  he 
would  wish  to  lie,  with  his  men  lying  close  about 
him,  until  the  time  comes  for  the  great  reunion. 

But  I  am  going  back  to  France  to  visit  again 
and  again  that  grave  where  he  lies  buried.  So 
long  as  I  live  myself  that  hill  will  be  the  shrine  to 
which  my  many  pilgrimages  will  be  directed.  The 
time  will  come  again  when  I  may  take  his  mother 
with  me,  and  when  we  may  kneel  together  at  that 
spot. 

And  meanwhile  the  wild  flowers  and  the  long 
grasses  and  all  the  little  shrubs  will  keep  watch 
and  ward  over  him  there,  and  over  all  the  other 
brave  soldiers  who  lie  hard  by,  who  died  for  God 
and  for  their  flag. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

SO,  at  last,  I  turned  back  toward  the  road,  and 
very  slowly,  with  bowed  head  and  shoulders 
that  felt  very  old,  all  at  once,  I  walked  back 
toward  the  Bapaume  highway.  I  was  still  silent, 
and  when  we  reached  the  road  again,  and  the  wait- 
ing cars,  I  turned,  and  looked  back,  long  and  sor- 
rowfully, at  that  tiny  hill,  and  the  grave  it  shel- 
tered. Godfrey  and  Hogge  and  Adam,  Johnson 
and  the  soldiers  of  our  party,  followed  my  gaze. 
But  we  looked  in  silence ;  not  one  of  us  had  a  word 
to  say.  There  are  moments,  as  I  suppose  we  have 
all  had  to  learn,  that  are  beyond  words  and 
speech. 

And  then  at  last  we  stepped  back  into  the  cars, 
and  resumed  our  journey  on  the  Bapaume  road. 
We  started  slowly,  and  I  looked  back  until  a  turn 
in  the  road  hid  that  field  with  its  mounds  and  its 
crosses,  and  that  tiny  cemetery  on  the  wee  hill. 
So  I  said  good-by  to  my  boy  again,  for  a  little 
space. 

Our  road  was  by  way  of  Poizieres,  and  this  part 
of  our  journey  took  us  through  an  area  of  fearful 
desolation.  It  was  the  country  that  was  most  bit- 
terly fought  over  in  the  summer  long  battle  of 
the  Somme  in  1916,  when  the  new  armies  of 

816 


'A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  317 

Britain  had  their  baptism  of  fire  and  sounded  the 
knell  of  doom  for  the  Hun.  It  was  then  he  learned 
that  Britain  had  had  time,  after  all,  to  train  troops 
who,  man  for  man,  outmatched  his  best. 

Here  war  had  passed  like  a  consuming  flame, 
leaving  no  living  thing  in  its  path.  The  trees  were 
mown  down,  clean  to  the  ground.  The  very  earth 
was  blasted  out  of  all  semblance  to  its  normal 
kindly  look.  The  scene  was  like  a  picture  of  Hell 
from  Dante's  Inferno;  there  is  nothing  upon  this 
earth  that  may  be  compared  with  it.  Death  and 
pain  and  agony  had  ruled  this  whole  countryside, 
once  so  smiling  and  fair  to  see. 

After  we  had  driven  for  a  space  we  came  to 
something  that  lay  by  the  roadside  that  was  a  fit- 
ting occupant  of  such  a  spot.  It  was  like  the 
skeleton  of  some  giant  creature  of  a  prehistoric 
age,  incredibly  savage  even  in  its  stark,  unlovely 
death.  It  might  have  been  the  frame  of  some  vast, 
metallic  tumble  bug,  that,  crawling  ominously 
along  this  road  of  death,  had  come  into  the  path 
of  a  Colossus,  and  been  stepped  upon,  and  then 
kicked  aside  from  the  road  to  die. 

" That's  what's  left  of  one  of  our  first  tanks," 
said  Godfrey.  "We  used  them  first  in  this  battle 
of  the  Somme,  you  remember.  And  that  must 
have  been  one  of  the  very  earliest  ones.  They've 
been  improved  and  perfected  since  that  time. ' ' 

"How  came  it  like  this?"  I  asked,  gazing  at  it, 
curiously, 


318  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

"A  direct  hit  from  a  big  German  shell — a  lucky 
hit,  of  course.  That's  about  the  only  thing 
that  could  put  even  one  of  the  first  tanks  out 
of  action  that  way.  Ordinary  shells  from 
field  pieces,  machine-gun  fire,  that  sort  of 
thing,  made  no  impression  on  the  tanks.  But, 
of  course " 

I  could  see  for  myself.  The  in'ards  of  the 
monster  had  been  pretty  thoroughly  knocked  out. 
Well,  that  tank  had  done  its  bit,  I  have  no  doubt. 
And,  since  its  heyday,  the  brain  of  Mars  has 
spawned  so  many  new  ideas  that  this  vast  creature 
would  have  been  obsolete,  and  ready  for  the  scrap 
heap,  even  had  the  Hun  not  put  it  there  before  its 
time. 

At  the  Butte  de  Marlincourt,  one  of  the  most 
bitterly  contested  bits  of  the  battlefield,  we  passed 
a  huge  mine  crater,  and  I  made  an  inspection  of 
it.  It  was  like  the  crater  of  an  old  volcano,  a  huge 
old  mountain  with  a  hole  in  its  center.  Here  were 
elaborate  dugouts,  too,  and  many  graves. 

Soon  we  came  to  Bapaume.  Bapaume  was  one 
of  the  objectives  the  British  failed  to  reach  in  the 
action  of  1916.  But  early  in  1917  the  Germans, 
seeing  they  had  come  to  the  end  of  their  tether 
there,  retreated,  and  gave  the  town  up.  But  what 
a  town  they  left!  Bapaume  was  nearly  as  com- 
plete a  ruin  as  Arras  and  Albert.  But  it  had  not 
been  wrecked  by  shell-fire.  The  Hun  had  done 
the  work  in  cold  blood.  The  houses  had  been 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  319 

wrecked  by  human  hands.  Pictures  still  hung 
crazily  upon  the  walls.  Grates  were  falling  out 
of  fire-places.  Beds  stood  on  end.  Tables  and 
chairs  were  wantonly  smashed  and  there  was 
black  ruin  everywhere. 

We  drove  on  then  to  a  small  town  where  the 
skirling  of  pipes  heralded  our  coming.  It  was  the 
headquarters  of  General  Willoughby  and  the  For- 
tieth Division.  Highlanders  came  flocking  around 
to  greet  us  warmly,  and  they  all  begged  me  to 
sing  to  them.  But  the  officer  in  command  called 
them  to  attention. 

"Men,"  he  said,  " Harry  Lauder  comes  to  us 
fresh  from  the  saddest  mission  of  his  life.  We 
have  no  right  to  expect  him  to  sing  for  us  to-day, 
but  if  it  is  God's  will  that  he  should,  nothing  could 
give  us  greater  pleasure." 

My  heart  was  very  heavy  within  me,  and  never, 
even  on  the  night  when  I  went  back  to  the  Shaf  tes- 
bury  Theater,  have  I  felt  less  like  singing.  But 
I  saw  the  warm  sympathy  on  the  faces  of  the  boys. 
"If  you'll  take  me  as  I  am,"  I  told  them,  "I  will 
try  to  sing  for  you.  I  will  do  my  best,  anyway. 
When  a  man  is  killed,  or  a  battalion  is  killed,  or 
a  regiment  is  killed,  the  war  goes  on,  just  the 
same.  And  if  it  is  possible  for  you  to  fight  with 
broken  ranks,  I'll  try  to  sing  for  you  with  a  broken 
heart." 

And  so  I  did,  and,  although  God  knows  it  must 
have  been  a  feeble  effort,  the  lads  gave  me  a  beau- 


320  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

tiful  reception.  I  sang  my  older  songs  for  them — 
the  songs  my  own  laddie  had  loved. 

They  gave  us  tea  after  I  had  sung  for  them,  with 
chocolate  eclairs  as  a  rare  treat!  We  were  sur- 
prised to  get  such  fare  upon  the  battlefield,  but 
it  was  a  welcome  surprise. 

We  turned  back  from  Bapaume,  traveling  along 
another  road  on  the  return  journey.  And  on  the 
way  we  met  about  two  hundred  German  prisoners 
— the  first  we  had  seen  in  any  numbers.  They 
were  working  on  the  road,  under  guard  of  British 
soldiers.  They  looked  sleek  and  well-fed,  and  they 
were  not  working  very  hard,  certainly.  Yet  I 
thought  there  was  something  about  their  expres- 
sion like  that  of  neglected  animals.  I  got  out  of 
the  car  and  spoke  to  an  intelligent-looking  little 
chap,  perhaps  about  twenty-five  years  old — a 
sergeant.  He  looked  rather  suspicious  when  I 
spoke  to  him,  but  he  saluted  smartly,  and  stood  at 
attention  wrhile  we  talked,  and  he  gave  me  ready 
and  civil  answers. 

"You  speak  English?"  I  asked.    "Fluently?" 

"Yes,  sir!" 

"How  do  you  like  being  a  prisoner?" 

"I  don't  like  it.    It's  very  degrading." 

"Your  companions  look  pretty  happy.  Any 
complaints?" 

"No,  sir!    None!" 

"What  are  the  Germans  fighting  for?  What 
do  you  hope  to  gain?" 


'A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  321 

"The  freedom  of  the  seas!" 

"But  you  had  that  before  the  waf  broke  out!" 

"We  haven't  got  it  now." 

I  laughed  at  that. 

"Certainly  not,"  I  said.  "Give  us  credit  for 
doing  something!  But  how  are  you  going  to  get 
it  again!" 

"Our  submarines  will  get  it  for  us." 

"Still,"  I  said,  "you  must  be  fighting  for  some- 
thing else,  too ! ' ' 

"No,"  he  said,  doggedly.  "Just  for  the  free- 
dom of  the  seas." 

I  couldn't  resist  telling  him  a  bit  of  news  that 
the  censor  was  keeping  very  carefully  from  his 
fellow-Germans  at  home. 

"We  sank  seven  of  your  submarines  last  week," 
I  said. 

He  probably  didn't  believe  that.  But  his  face 
paled  a  bit,  and  his  lips  puckered,  and  he  scowled. 
Then,  as  I  turned  away,  he  whipped  his  hand  to 
his  forehead  in  a  stiff  salute,  but  I  felt  that  it  was 
not  the  most  gracious  salute  I  had  ever  seen! 
Still,  I  didn't  blame  him  muchl 

Captain  Godfrey  meant  to  show  us  another 
village  that  day. 

"Rather  an  interesting  spot,"  he  said.  "They 
differ,  these  French  villages.  They're  not  all 
alike,  by  any  means." 

Then,  before  long,  he  began  to  look  puzzled. 
And  finally  he  called  a  halt. 


322  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

"It  ought  to  be  right  here,"  he  said.  "It  was, 
not  so  long  ago." 

But  there  was  no  village !  The  Hun  had  passed 
that  way.  And  the  village  for  which  Godfrey  was 
seeking  had  been  utterly  wiped  off  the  face  of  the 
earth!  Not  a  trace  of  it  remained.  Where  men 
and  women  and  little  children  had  lived  and 
worked  and  played  in  quiet  happiness  the  abomi- 
nable desolation  that  is  the  work  of  the  Hun  had 
come.  There  was  nothing  to  show  that  they  or 
their  village  had  ever  been. 

The  Hun  knows  no  mercy ! 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

THERE  had  been,  originally,  a  perfectly 
definite  route  for  the  Reverend  Harry 
Lauder,  M.P.,  Tour — as  definite  a  route  as 
is  mapped  out  for  me  when  I  am  touring  the 
United  States.  Our  route  had  called  for  a  fairly 
steady  progress  from  Vimy  Ridge  to  Peronne — 
like  Bapaume,  one  of  the  great  unreached  objec- 
tives of  the  Somme  offensive,  and,  again  like 
Bapaume,  ruined  and  abandoned  by  the  Germans 
in  the  retreat  of  the  spring  of  1917.  But  we  made 
many  side  trips  and  gave  many  and  many  an  un- 
planned, extemporaneous  roadside  concert,  as  I 
have  told. 

For  all  of  us  it  had  been  a  labor  of  love.  I 
will  always  believe  that  I  sang  a  little  better  on 
that  tour  than  I  have  ever  sung  before  or  ever 
shall  again,  and  I  am  sure,  too,  that  Hogge  and 
Dr.  Adam  spoke  more  eloquently  to  their  soldier 
hearers  than  they  ever  did  in  parliament  or 
church.  My  wee  piano,  Tinkle  Tom,  held  out 
staunchly.  He  never  wavered  in  tune,  though  he 
got  some  sad  jouncings  as  he  clung  to  the  grid 
of  a  swift-moving  car.  As  for  Johnson,  my 
Yorkshireman,  he  was  as  good  an  accompanist  be- 
fore the  tour  ended  as  I  could  ever  want,  and  he 

323  < 


324  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

took  the  keenest  interest  and  delight  in  his  work, 
from  start  to  finish. 

Captain  Godfrey,  our  manager,  must  have  been 
proud  indeed  of  the  " business"  his  troupe  did. 
The  weather  was  splendid;  the  "houses"  every- 
where were  so  big  that  if  there  had  been  Stand- 
ing Eoom  Only  signs  they  would  have  been  called 
into  use  every  day.  And  his  company  got  a  won- 
derful reception  wherever  it  showed!  He  had 
everything  a  manager  could  have  to  make  his 
heart  rejoice.  And  he  did  not,  like  many  man- 
agers, have  to  be  continually  trying  to  patch  up 
quarrels  in  the  company!  He  had  no  petty  pro- 
fessional jealousies  with  which  to  contend;  such 
things  were  unknown  in  our  troupe  I 

All  the  time  while  I  was  singing  in  France  I  was 
elaborating  an  idea  that  had  for  some  time  pos- 
sessed me,  and  that  was  coming  now  to  dominate 
me  utterly.  I  was  thinking  of  the  maimed  sol- 
diers, the  boys  who  had  not  died,  but  had  given 
a  leg,  or  an  arm,  or  their  sight  to  the  cause,  and 
who  were  doomed  to  go  through  the  rest  of  their 
lives  broken  and  shattered  and  incomplete.  They 
were  never  out  of  my  thoughts.  I  had  seen  them 
before  I  ever  came  to  France,  as  I  traveled  the 
length  and  breadth  of  the  United  Kingdom,  sing- 
ing for  the  men  in  the  camps  and  the  hospitals, 
and  doing  what  I  could  to  help  in  the  recruiting. 
And  I  used  to  lie  awake  of  nights,  wondering  what 
Would  become  of  those  poor  broken  laddies  when 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  325 

the  war  was  over  and  we  were  all  setting  to  work 
again  to  rebuild  our  lives. 

And  especially  I  thought  of  the  brave  laddies  of 
my  ain  Scotland.  They  must  have  thought  often 
of  their  future.  They  must  have  wondered  what 
was  to  become  of  them,  when  they  had  to  take  up 
the  struggle  with  the  world  anew — no  longer  on 
even  terms  with  their  mates,  but  handicapped  by 
grievous  injuries  that  had  come  to  them  in  the 
noblest  of  ways.  I  remembered  crippled  soldiers, 
victims  of  other  wars,  whom  I  had  seen  selling 
papers  and  matches  on  street  corners,  objects  of 
charity,  almost,  to  a  generation  that  had  forgotten 
the  service  to  the  country  that  had  put  them  in 
the  way  of  having  to  make  their  living  so.  And 
I  had  made  a  great  resolution  that,  if  I  could  do 
aught  to  prevent  it,  no  man  of  Scotland  who  had 
served  in  this  war  should  ever  have  to  seek  a 
livelihood  in  such  a  manner. 

So  I  conceived  the  idea  of  raising  a  great  fund 
to  be  used  for  giving  the  maimed  Scots  soldiers  a 
fresh  start  in  life.  They  would  be  pensioned  by 
the  government.  I  knew  that.  But  I  knew,  too, 
that  a  pension  is  rarely  more  than  enough  to  keep 
body  and  soul  together.  What  these  crippled  men 
would  need,  I  felt,  was  enough  money  to  set  them 
up  in  some  little  business  of  their  own,  that  they 
could  see  to  despite  their  wounds,  or  to  enable 
them  to  make  a  new  start  in  some  old  business  or 
trade,  if  they  could  do  so. 


326  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

A  man  might  need  a  hundred  pounds,  I  thought, 
or  two  hundred  pounds,  to  get  him  started  prop- 
erly again.  And  I  wanted  to  be  able  to  hand  a 
man  what  money  he  might  require.  I  did  not  want 
to  lend  it  to  him,  taking  his  note  or  his  promise 
to  pay.  Nor  did  I  want  to  give  it  to  him  as 
charity.  I  wanted  to  hand  it  to  him  as  a  free- 
will offering,  as  a  partial  payment  of  the  debt 
Scotland  owed  him  for  what  he  had  done  for 
her. 

And  I  thought,  too,  of  men  stricken  by  shell- 
shock,  or  paralyzed  in  the  war — there  are  pitifully 
many  of  both  sorts !  I  did  not  want  them  to  stay 
in  bare  and  cold  and  lonely  institutions.  I  wanted 
to  take  them  out  of  such  places,  and  back  to  their 
homes;  home  to  the  village  and  the  glen.  I 
wanted  to  get  them  a  wheel-chair,  with  an  old, 
neighborly  man  or  an  old  neighborly  woman, 
maybe,  to  take  them  for  an  airing  in  the  forenoon, 
and  the  afternoon,  that  they  might  breathe  the 
good  Scots  air,  and  see  the  wild  flowers  growing, 
and  hear  the  song  of  the  birds. 

That  was  the  plan  that  had  for  a  long  time  been 
taking  form  in  my  mind.  I  had  talked  it  over 
with  some  of  my  friends,  and  the  newspapers  had 
heard  of  it,  somehow,  and  printed  a  few  para- 
graphs about  it.  It  was  still  very  much  in  embryo 
when  I  went  to  France,  but,  to  my  surprise,  the 
Scots  soldiers  nearly  always  spoke  of  it  when  I 
was  talking  with  them.  They  had  seen  jthe  para- 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  327 

graphs  in  the  papers,  and  I  soon  realized  that  it 
loomed  up  as  a  great  thing  for  them. 

"Aye,  it's  a  grand  thing  you're  thinking  of, 
Harry,"  they  said,  again  and  again.  "Now  we 
know  we'll  no  be  beggars  in  the  street,  now  that 
we've  got  a  champion  like  you,  Harry." 

I  heard  such  words  as  that  first  from  a  High- 
lander at  Arras,  and  from  that  moment  I  have 
thought  of  little  else.  Many  of  the  laddies  told 
me  that  the  thought  of  being  killed  did  not  bother 
them,  but  that  they  did  worry  a  bit  about  their 
future  in  case  they  went  home  maimed  and 
helpless. 

' '  We  're  here  to  stay  until  there 's  no  more  work 
to  do,  if  it  takes  twenty  years,  Harry,"  they  said. 
*  *  But  it  '11  be  a  big  relief  to  know  we  will  be  cared 
for  if  we  must  go  back  crippled." 

I  set  the  sum  I  would  have  to  raise  to  accom- 
plish the  work  I  had  in  mind  at  a  million  pounds 
sterling — five  million  dollars.  It  may  seem  a 
great  sum  to  some,  but  to  me,  knowing  the  pur- 
pose for  which  it  is  to  be  used,  it  seems  small 
enough.  And  my  friends  agree  with  me.  When 
I  returned  from  France  I  talked  to  some  Scots 
friends,  and  a  meeting  was  called,  in  Glasgow,  of 
the  St.  Andrews  Society.  I  addressed  it,  and  it 
declared  itself  in  cordial  sympathy  with  the  idea. 
Then  I  went  to  Edinburgh,  and  down  to  London, 
and  back  north  to  Manchester.  Everywhere  my 
plan  was  greeted  with  the  greatest  enthusiasm, 


328  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

and  the  real  organization  of  the  fund  was  begun 
on  September  17  and  18,  1917. 

This  fund  of  mine  is  known  officially  as  "The 
Harry  Lauder  Million  Pound  Fund  for  Maimed 
Men,  Scottish  Soldiers  and  Sailors."  It  does  not 
in  any  way  conflict  with  nor  overlap,  any  other 
work  already  being  done.  I  made  sure  of  that, 
because  I  talked  to  the  Pension  Minister,  and  his 
colleagues,  in  London,  before  I  went  ahead  with 
my  plans,  and  they  fully  and  warmly  approved 
everything  that  I  planned  to  do. 

The  Earl  of  Rosebery,  former  Prime  Minister 
of  Britain,  is  Honorary  President  of  the  Fund, 
and  Lord  Balfour  of  Burleigh  is  its  treasurer. 
And  as  I  write  we  have  raised  an  amount  well 
into  six  figures  in  pounds  sterling.  One  of  the 
things  that  made  me  most  willing  to  undertake 
my  last  tour  of  America  was  my  feeling  that  I 
could  secure  the  support  and  cooperation  of  the 
Scottish  people  in  America  for  my  fund  better  by 
personal  appeals  than  in  any  other  way.  At  the 
end  of  every  performance  I  gave  during  the  tour, 
I  told  my  audience  what  I  was  doing  and  the 
object  of  the  fund,  and,  although  I  addressed 
myself  chiefly  to  the  Scots,  there  has  been  a  most 
generous  and  touching  response  from  Americans 
as  well. 

We  distributed  little  plaid-bordered  envelopes, 
in  which  folk  were  invited  to  send  contributions  to 
the  bank  in  New  York  that  was  the  American 


A  MINSTREL  IN.  FRANCE  329 

depository.  And  after  each  performance  Mrs. 
Lauder  stood  in  the  lobby  and  sold  little  envelopes 
full  of  stamps,  "sticky  backs,"  as  she  called 
them,  like  the  Red  Cross  seals  that  have  been  sold 
so  long  in  America  at  Christmas  time.  She  sold 
them  for  a  quarter,  or  for  whatever  they  would 
bring,  and  all  the  money  went  to  the  fund. 

I  had  a  novel  experience  sometimes.  Often  I 
would  no  sooner  have  explained  what  I  was  doing 
than  I  would  feel  myself  the  target  of  a  sort  of 
bombardment.  At  first  I  thought  Germans  were 
shooting  at  me,  but  I  soon  learned  that  it  was 
money  that  was  being  thrown!  And  every  day 
my  dressing-table  would  be  piled  high  with  checks 
and  money  orders  and  paper  money  sent  direct 
to  me  instead  of  to  the  bank.  But  I  had  to  ask 
the  guid  folk  to  cease  firing — the  money  was  too 
apt  to  be  lost! 

Folk  of  all  races  gave  liberally.  I  was  deeply 
touched  at  Hot  Springs,  Arkansas,  where  the 
stage  hands  gave  me  the  money  they  had  received 
for  their  work  during  my  engagement. 


CHAPTEE  XXVIH 

1HAVE  stopped  for  a  wee  digression  about 
my  fund.    I  saw  many  interesting  things  in 
France,  and  dreadful  things.     And  it  was 
impressed  upon  me  more  and  more  that  the  Hun 
knows  no  mercy.    The  wicked,  wanton  things  he 
did  in  France,  and  that  I  saw ! 

There  was  Mont  St.  Quentin,  one  of  the  very 
strongest  of  the  positions  out  of  which  the  British 
turned  him.  There  was  a  chateau  there,  a  bonnie 
place.  And  hard  by  was  a  wee  cemetery.  The 
Hun  had  smashed  its  pretty  monuments,  and  he 
had  reached  into  that  sacred  soil  with  his  filthy 
claws,  and  dragged  out  the  dead  from  their 
resting-place,  and  scattered  their  helpless  bones 
about. 

He  ruined  Peronne  in  wanton  fury  because  it 
was  passing  from  his  grip.  He  wrecked  its  old 
cathedral,  once  one  of  the  loveliest  sights  in 
France.  He  took  away  the  old  fleurs-de-lis  from 
the  great  gates  of  Peronne.  He  stole  and  carried 
away  the  statues  that  used  to  stand  in  the  old 
square.  He  left  the  great  statue  of  St.  Peter,  still 
standing  in  the  churchyard,  but  its  thumb  was 
broken  off.  I  found  it,  as  I  rummaged  about  idly 
in  the  debris  at  the  statue's  foot. 

330 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  331 

It  was  no  casual  looting  that  the  Huns  did. 
They  did  their  work  methodically,  systematically. 
It  was  a  sight  to  make  the  angels  weep. 

As  I  left  the  ruined  cathedral  I  met  a  couple  of 
French  poilus,  and  tried  to  talk  with  them.  But 
they  spoke  "very  leetle"  English,  and  I  fired  all 
my  French  words  at  them  in  one  sentence. 

"Oui,  oui,  madame,"  I  said.  "Encore  pomme 
du  terre.  Fini!" 

They  laughed,  but  we  did  no  get  far  with  our 
talk!  Not  in  French. 

"You  can't  love  the  Hun  much,  after  this,"  I 
said. 

"Ze  Hun!  Ze  bloody  Boche?"  cried  one  of 
them.  "I  keel  heem  all  my  life!'* 

I  was  glad  to  quit  Peronne.  The  rape  of  that 
lovely  church  saddened  me  more  than  almost  any 
sight  I  saw  in  France.  I  did  not  care  to  look  at 
it.  So  I  was  glad  when  we  motored  on  to  the 
headquarters  of  the  Fourth  Army,  where  I  had  the 
honor  of  meeting  one  of  Britain's  greatest  sol- 
diers, General  Sir  Henry  Eawlinson,  who  greeted 
us  most  cordially,  and  invited  us  to  dinner. 

After  dinner  we  drove  on  toward  Amiens.  We 
were  swinging  back  now,  toward  Boulogne,  and 
were  scheduled  to  sleep  that  night  at  Amiens — 
which  the  Germans  held  for  a  few  days,  during 
their  first  rush  toward  Paris,  before  the  Marne, 
but  did  not  have  time  to  destroy. 

Adam  knew  Amiens,  and  was  made  welcome, 


332  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

with  the  rest  of  us,  at  an  excellent  hotel.  Von 
Kluck  had  made  its  headquarters  when  he  swung 
that  way  from  Brussels,  and  it  was  there  he 
planned  the  dinner  he  meant  to  eat  in  Paris  with 
the  Kaiser.  Von  Kluck  demanded  an  indemnity 
of  a  million  dollars  from  Amiens  to  spare  its 
famous  old  cathedral. 

It  was  late  when  we  arrived,  but  before  I  slept 
I  called  for  the  boots  and  ordered  a  bottle  of 
ginger  ale.  I  tried  to  get  him  to  tell  me  about  old 
von  Kluck  and  his  stay  but  he  couldn't  talk  Eng- 
lish, and  was  busy,  anyway,  trying  to  open  the 
bottle  without  cutting  the  wire.  Adam  and  Hogge 
are  fond,  to  this  day,  of  telling  how  I  shouted  at 
him,  finally: 

"Well,  how  do  you  expect  to  open  that  bottle 
when  you  can't  even  talk  the  English  language?" 

Next  day  was  Sunday,  and  we  went  to  church 
in  the  cathedral,  which  von  Kluck  didn't  destroy, 
after  all.  There  were  signs  of  war ;  the  windows 
and  the  fine  carved  doors  were  banked  with  sand 
bags  as  a  measure  of  protection  from  bombing 
airplanes. 

I  gave  my  last  roadside  concert  on  the  road 
from  Amiens  to  Boulogne.  It  was  at  a  little  place 
called  Ouef,  and  we  had  some  trouble  in  finding 
it  and  more  in  pronouncing  its  name.  Some  of  us 
called  it  Off,  some  Owf !  I  knew  I  had  heard  the 
name  somewhere,  and  I  was  racking  my  brains  to 
think  as  Johnson  set  up  our  wee  piano  and  I  began 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  333 

to  sing.  Just  as  I  finished  my  first  song  a  rooster 
set  up  a  violent  crowing,  in  competition  with  me, 
and  I  remembered! 

'  *  I  know  where  I  am ! "  I  cried.    "  I'm  at  Egg ! ' ' 

And  that  is  what  Oeuf  means,  in  English ! 

The  soldiers  were  vastly  amused.  They  were 
Gordon  Highlanders,  and  I  found  a  lot  of  chaps 
among  them  frae  far  awa'  Aberdeen.  Not  many 
of  them  are  alive  to-day !  But  that  day  they  were 
a  gay  lot  and  a  bonnie  lot.  There  was  a  big 
Highlander  who  said  to  me,  very  gravely: 

"Harry,  the  only  good  thing  I  ever  saw  in  a 
German  was  a  British  bayonet !  If  you  ever  hear 
anyone  at  hame  talking  peace — cut  off  their 
heads!  Or  send  them  out  to  us,  and  we'll  show 
them.  There's  a  job  to  do  here,  and  we'll 
do  it. 

"Look!"  he  said,  sweeping  his  arm  as  if  to 
include  all  France.  "Look  at  yon  ruins!  How 
would  you  like  old  England  or  auld  Scotland  to 
be  looking  like  that?  We're  not  only  going  to 
break  and  scatter  the  Hun  rule,  Harry.  If  we  do 
no  more  than  that,  it  will  surely  be  reassembled 
again.  We're  going  to  destroy  it." 

On  the  way  from  Oeuf  to  Boulogne  we  visited 
a  small,  out  of  the  way  hospital,  and  I  sang  for 
the  lads  there.  And  I  was  going  around,  after- 
ward, talking  to  the  boys  on  their  cots,  and  came 
to  a  young  chap  whose  head  and  face  were 
swathed  in  bandages. 


334  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

"How  came  you  to  be  hurt,  lad?"  I  asked. 

"Well,  sir,"  he  said,  "we  were  attacking  one 
morning.  I  went  over  the  parapet  with  the  rest, 
and  got  to  the  German  trench  all  right.  I  wasn't 
hurt.  And  I  went  down,  thirty  feet  deep,  into  one 
of  their  dugouts.  You  wouldn't  think  men  could 
live  so — but,  of  course,  they're  not  men — they're 
animals !  There  was  a  lighted  candle  on  a  shelf, 
and  beside  it  a  fountain  pen.  It  was  just  an 
ordinary-looking  pen,  and  it  was  fair  loot — I 
thought  some  chap  had  meant  to  write  a  letter, 
and  forgotten  his  pen  when  our  attack  came.  So 
I  slipped  it  in  my  pocket. 

"Two  days  later  I  was  going  to  write  a  few 
lines  to  my  mother  and  tell  her  I  was  all  right, 
so  I  thought  I'd  try  my  new  pen.  And  when  I 
unscrewed  the  cap  it  exploded — and,  well,  you  see 
me,  Harry !  It  blew  half  of  my  face  away ! ' ' 

The  Hun  knows  no  mercy. 

I  was  glad  to  see  Boulogne  again — the  white 
buildings  on  the  white  hills,  and  the  harbor  be- 
yond. Here  the  itinerary  of  the  Eeverend  Harry 
Lauder,  M.P.,  Tour,  came  to  its  formal  end.  But, 
since  there  were  many  new  arrivals  in  the  hospi- 
tals— the  population  of  a  base  shifts  quickly — we 
were  asked  to  give  a  couple  more  concerts  in  the 
hospitals  where  we  had  first  appeared  on  French 
soil. 

A  good  many  thousand  Canadians  had  just 
come  in,  so  I  sang  at  Base  Hospital  No.  1,  and 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  335 

then  gave  another  and  farewell  concert  at  the 
great  convalescent  camp  on  the  hill.  And  then  we 
said  good-by  to  Captain  Godfrey,  and  the  chauf- 
feurs, and  to  Johnson,  my  accompanist,  ready  to 
go  back  to  his  regiment  now.  I  told  them  all  I 
hoped  that  when  I  came  to  France  again  to  sing 
we  could  reassemble  all  the  original  cast,  and  I 
pray  that  we  may! 

On  Monday  we  took  boat  again  for  Folkestone. 
The  boat  was  crowded  with  men  going  home  on 
leave,  and  I  wandered  among  them.  I  heard  many 
a  tale  of  heroism  and  courage,  of  splendid  sacri- 
fice and  suffering  nobly  borne.  Destroyers,  as  be- 
fore, circled  about  us,  and  there  was  no  hint  of 
trouble  from  a  Hun  submarine. 

On  our  boat  was  Lord  Dalmeny,  a  King's  Mes- 
senger, carrying  dispatches  from  the  front.  He 
asked  me  how  I  had  liked  the  "show."  It  is  so 
that  nearly  all  British  soldiers  refer  to  the 
war. 

They  had  earned  their  rest,  those  laddies  who 
were  going  home  to  Britain.  But  some  of  them 
were  half  sorry  to  be  going  1  I  talked  to  one  of 
them. 

"I  don't  know,  Harry, "  he  said.  "I  was  look- 
ing forward  to  this  leave  for  a  long  time.  I've 
been  oot  twa  years.  My  heart  jumped  with  joy 
at  first  at  the  thought  of  seeing  my  mother  and 
the  auld  hame.  But  now  that  I'm  started,  and  in 
a  fair  way  to  get  there,  I'm  no  so  happy.  You 


336  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

see — every  young  fellow  frae  my  toon  is  awa'. 
I'm  the  only  one  going  back.  Many  are  dead.  It 
won't  be  the  same.  I've  a  mind  just  to  stay  on 
London  till  my  leave  is  up,  and  then  go  back.  If 
I  went  home  my  mother  would  but  burst  out 
greetin',  an'  I  think  I  could  no  stand  that." 

But,  as  for  me,  I  was  glad,  though  I  was  sorry, 
too,  to  be  going  home.  I  wanted  to  go  back  again. 
But  I  wanted  to  hurry  to  my  wife,  and  tell  her 
what  I  had  seen  at  our  boy's  grave.  And  so  I 
did,  so  soon  as  I  landed  on  British  ground  once 
more. 

I  felt  that  I  was  bearing  a  message  to  her.  A 
message  from  our  boy.  I  felt — and  I  still  feel — 
that  I  could  tell  her  that  all  was  well  with  him,  and 
with  all  the  other  soldiers  of  Britain,  who  sleep, 
like  him,  in  the  land  of  the  bleeding  lily.  They 
died  for  humanity,  and  God  will  not  forget. 

And  I  think  there  is  something  for  me  to  say  to 
all  those  who  are  to  know  a  grief  such  as  I  knew. 
Every  mother  and  father  who  loves  a  son  in  this 
war  must  have  a  strong,  unbreakable  faith  in  the 
future  life,  in  the  world  beyond,  where  you  will 
see  your  son  again.  Do  not  give  way  to  grief. 
Instead,  keep  your  gaze  and  your  faith  firmly 
fixed  on  the  world  beyond,  and  regard  your  boy's 
absence  as  though  he  were  but  on  a  journey.  By 
keeping  your  faith  you  will  help  to  win  this  war. 
For  if  you  lose  it,  the  war  and  your  personal  self 
are  lost. 


A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE  337*- 

My  whole  perspective  was  changed  by  my  visit 
to  the  front.  Never  again  shall  I  know  those  mo- 
ments of  black  despair  that  used  to  come  to  me. 
In  my  thoughts  I  shall  never  be  far  away  from 
the  little  cemetery  hard  by  the  Bapaume  road. 
And  life  would  not  be  worth  the  living  for  me  did 
I  not  believe  that  each  day  brings  me  nearer  to 
seeing  him  again. 

I  found  a  belief  among  the  soldiers  in  France 
that  was  almost  universal.  I  found  it  among  all 
classes  of  men  at  the  front ;  among  men  who  had, 
before  the  war,  been  regularly  religious,  along 
well-ordered  lines,  and  among  men  who  had  lived 
just  according  to  their  own  lights.  Before  the 
war,  before  the  Hun  went  mad,  the  young  men  of 
Britain  thought  little  of  death  or  what  might  come 
after  death.  They  were  gay  and  careless,  living 
for  to-day.  Then  war  came,  and  with  it  death, 
astride  of  every  minute,  every  hour.  And  the 
young  men  began  to  think  of  spiritual  things  and 
of  God. 

Their  faces,  their  deportments,  may  not  have 
shown  the  change.  But  it  was  in  their  hearts. 
They  would  not  show  it.  Not  they !  But  I  have 
talked  with  hundreds  of  men  along  the  front.  And 
it  is  my  conviction  that  they  believe,  one  and  all, 
that  if  they  fall  in  battle  they  only  pass  on  to 
another.  And  what  a  comforting  belief  that  is! 

"It  is  that  belief  that  makes  us  indifferent  to 
danger  and  to  death,"  a  soldier  said  to  me.  "We 


338  A  MINSTREL  IN  FRANCE 

fight  in  a  righteous  cause  and  a  holy  war.    God 
is  not  going  to  let  everything  end  for  us  just  be- 
cause the  mortal  life  quits  the  shell  we  call  the 
body.    You  may  be  sure  of  that." 
And  I  am  sure  of  it,  indeed ! 


DATE  DUE 


FEB  2 

6  '71 

REr.p 

r 

IAR  i97i 

RECD        MA 

R  9      1971 

nrr>  9  f 

1^173 

DEC  2t 

KCD-i 

1731  J 

'EC  1  2  urn 

W    *           Iv7/j 

GAYLORD 

PRINTED  IN  U.S.A. 

A     000  684  730     5 


